


in the sweet by and by

by propinquitous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Con Artists, Crime & Criminals, Dances, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, High Stakes, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mental Illness, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Past Abuse, Pulp, Romantic Gestures, of which none are homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22064437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: In the summer of 1894, Eliot Waugh and Margo Hanson roll into Florence, Colorado on the heels of a gold rush. Quentin, a shy, bookish young man with an ailing father and few prospects, finds himself beset by these charming newcomers, and his life is forever altered when they seek work at the Coldwater orchard.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 98
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, first off: this fic is a little pulpy and ridiculous. i love romance and queer history, and i wanted to write an indulgent, queer historical au without homophobia. so this is a love story with a happy ending, and no one is at risk of being found out and hurt because of it.
> 
> that said, there are other historical realities that bear mention. while i love frontier stories, i don't want to erase the context in which they exist. in particular, this story takes place during a time in which state and federal governments were actively violating treaties established with the ute (who lived in the area where this story takes place before being forced onto reservations), and around the time that the recently-elected governor of colorado had run on an explicit platform of ute extermination. this story will not be a deep dive into this particular history, but it also will not be ignored. i welcome any feedback on the subject - i know it's just a silly story, but silly stories can be the worst offenders.
> 
> this story owes its inspiration, in no small part, to _the orchardist_ by amanda coplin, _the angle of repose_ by wallace stegner, and _the which way tree_ by elizabeth crook. if you're interested in frontier fiction, these are some of my absolute favorites and there are obvious ways in which the structure and tone of this story reflect that.
> 
> thanks to [allegria23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegria23) for talking me through a particularly sticky spot; your thoughtful support and kindness are beyond appreciated, especially as i was feeling awkward and unsure.
> 
> and finally, all my gratitude and love to [portraitofemmy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy) for your support - for letting me ramble about cowboys, for asking questions, and for the beta. this story would not be what it is without you.
> 
> happy 2020, y'all.

#### PROLOGUE

##### GOODNIGHT, TEXAS

_The rain falls hard. It beats your head and slides down your neck, slipping between your shoulders where it cleaves through the dirt on your back like the Colorado through its canyons. The road has gone to mud and your boots squelch in the remains of it. It’s all right, you think; you do not need to be silent. You feel like the sky has opened up especially for you, to give cover, to keep you safe. It will wash away your scent and footprints; it will slow them all down. Even so, you must stay low, they'll find you otherwise in the light of their torches as now, at twenty-one, you stand a full head above most men. Your knees ache from crouching but you stay low as you make for the station, where the last train leaves every night at five past eleven._

_You pause. Your heart beats in your chest like a newly-hatched hummingbird. It has been a long time since you watched the small creatures from the front porch, their wings fluttering with an urgency that you understand much better now. An ache deep in your chest calms your unsteady heart._

_You have paused because they are gaining on you. It’s not the right thing to do, but you cannot help it, for you're afraid. There are men’s voices, low beneath the sharp sound of the rain as it falls like ammunition. You think,_ This is what the war felt like. This is what my daddy knew. _Even as the thought comes, you know it’s not the same. No one pursued him for his crimes; no dogs or deputies hunted him like a ten-point buck. And now your daddy is gone and you are running low beside a big iron thing, a black and churning beast in the night. You wait for the stationmaster to pass, for his heavy, wet footsteps beneath the sound of buckshot rain to recede, before you make your way across the tracks._

_The train begins to move. At last, you stand. When you do, you are grateful for the rain that hides the loud crack of joints. The metal slips under your hands as you climb the slick rungs. When at last you rest atop the train, you do not sleep until the sun rises, when you are sure that you have made it out of Texas. You do not feel safe just yet._

_By and by, you will._

* * *

#### CHAPTER 1

##### FLORENCE, COLORADO  
MAY 22, 1894

Quentin heard them before he saw them: two voices, one feminine but both of equal richness. He peered over the shoulder of the man in front of him and just under the brim of his hat, he could see a tall man, dark hair gone a little long like so many travellers on their way out West, curling over his too-white collar. Beside him stood a petite woman, her dress more travelworn than the man’s shirt, practical in its broad belt but fashionable in its enormous sleeves. Quentin knew that most women, even in town, wouldn’t be caught dead in such frivolities, preferring instead their sober, slim-sleeved trappings that did not get in the way of hauling hay or making steers out of bulls. All of this, in combination with the detached, courteous way they spoke to the postmaster, and Quentin clocked them for newcomers almost instantly.

Then the man turned and Quentin saw that his shirt was neatly buttoned and that he not only wore a necktie where most men had naked collars, but that a patterned waistcoat was also visible beneath his jacket.

Frivolous, indeed.

The man seemed to catch Quentin’s stare as he donned his hat, cocking an eyebrow in acknowledgement. Quentin felt his cheeks immediately burn and briefly thought to cover his face, with his hands or else the handkerchief tucked into his pocket, but found himself unable. Of all things, then, the man smiled, tipping his hat, and Quentin’s cheeks grew so hot that he thought of the brushfire last summer that had threatened the orchard.

The spell was broken when the woman spoke.

"Well that was a bust," she said. The man only hummed in agreement. By then Quentin had managed to affix his eyes firmly to the bulletins posted up front— _Help wanted_ , _Mules wanted_ , and often, simply _Wanted_ — and did not turn back to see if the man had yet looked away.

He didn’t hear any further conversation before it was his turn at the counter, then he was counting his coins. His father had sent him into town to send word up to the market and a distributor in Colorado Springs; the Coldwaters had broken a further five acres of land the autumn previous, and the trees they’d planted three years earlier ought to be ready for harvest come fall. Their tender blossoms, observed that morning during his daily rounds, had filled his heart with a sort of hope that had been lately hard to come by. They might yet have a profitable year; Quentin's father might yet find peace. He smiled to himself as he passed the letter through the window.

After, flush with renewed satisfaction of good news and completed tasks, Quentin found himself turned not toward home, but toward the saloon down the opposite end of the road. It had been some time since he’d had a moment to himself or anything to celebrate, and it felt like as good of an excuse as any to take a small indulgence. The cool breeze and the bright sun only encouraged this notion, as if the Earth itself agreed that things were looking up at last. He tied his horse, an aging pinto named Janie, to the posts nearest the entrance and spared a moment to soothe her before he made his way inside. 

Diaz's place was comfortable and better lit than many watering holes Quentin encountered, those up near the mining camps and closer to Colorado Springs. It lacked the rough edges of the frontier; though the daughter that now ran it, her mother mostly retired and her father run off to Victor in the rush, was often short-sentenced and less than sweet, the place had an air of soft comfort about it that Quentin was hard pressed to deny. In addition to the standard wooden stools, there were a few leather seats, tufted oldstyle like those in gentlemen's clubs back East, and the light filtered in bright though the front windows in the afternoons. It was the sort of place one could order a nice whiskey or claret soaking with fruit, but that also kept rotgut under the counter in sympathy for its hard-up patrons.

Quentin also enjoyed the company. Despite the barkeep's aloofness, he had the sense that he and Kady understood each other, that something unspoken passed between them each time she passed him a glass. It wasn't romance, he was sure, but he felt as though their relative quiet united them. When she finally condescended to speak to him, they'd bonded quickly over their shared love of watching patrons, of picking out those in the crowd that had recently lost a bet or whose wife had decided not to make the journey from Massachusetts after all. They were slow but steady friends, though he still harbored a mild fear after watching her break the nose of a man who thought he could stiff a young woman the price of his drinks— but even that had been impressive and almost endearing. All told, he was partial to Diaz's and to Kady, the overstrong drinks notwithstanding.

He sat down among the thin crowd of midday drinkers, situating himself at the far end of the bar where few people were likely to cluster. There was no need to call or motion for Kady; she would see him soon enough and knew he’d take only a beer at this time of day. Settling into one of the books he always carried in his saddlebag, he was quickly absorbed— the lushness of magical worlds was a particular weakness of Quentin’s that he’d never quite outgrown. 

Eventually, he was disturbed by Kady’s setting down a bottle in his periphery. She gave his dime a quick nod and leaned forward on the counter, as if to confide in him. He was not used to people treating him with such confidence.

And so she caught him off guard when she said, "You look all new and shiny this afternoon."

"How’s that?" he asked, frowning. He set his book down, took a long pull from the bottle, and braced himself for a biting follow-up. It was not beyond Kady to lodge an insult firmly in such a compliment.

"Just haven’t seen you look quite so relaxed these last few months. The warm weather suits you." There was a gentleness to her tone as she spoke that soothed Quentin’s hackles. He took a moment to find his words, allowing the irritation that had flared in his belly to settle.

Carefully, he said, "I’m glad to hear it. I do apologize for my less than hale appearance this winter." He gestured with his bottle in mock plaintiveness, unable to resist the desire to egg her on.

Kady rolled her eyes and made to snatch the bottle from his hand. "We just worry, you know, me and ma. After everything with the Quinn girl," she said.

Quentin sighed, pulling his face into a tight expression of discomfort. "Is it strictly necessary we get into this right now? I’ve only had half a beer and it’s not gone two o’clock."

Kady cast him a piteous look. "I suppose it isn’t," she huffed, not unkindly. "You look well, is all I mean."

"Thank you, I guess. Now, can we go back to the Ms. Diaz who never deigned to talk to me? I think I preferred that."

She shrugged. "That I could return to a time before I ever spoke to a man," she said, and walked away to wipe down the sticky bar.

Quentin sipped his beer and turned to look over the small crowd, thinking toward the material he might have for Kady when she caught another break. Most of the patrons at this hour were older, done with mining and farming and living off the kindness of their children if they had them, or else doing odd jobs for the younger versions of themselves— the general store owner, the postman, the blacksmith. At the opposite end of the bar from Quentin sat a dark-skinned man that had once told Quentin he’d been a professor back east, but now had clearly given himself over to drink. He had one glass eye, surrounded by delicate scars, and each time he and Quentin spoke the scars’ origin and the eye’s eulogy changed. Beyond him were two silent old men conversing only via playing cards. A group of young women, drinking without men and in the middle of the day, sat near the entrance, as if they were ready to escape at the first hint of their fathers’ shadows.

And finally, hunkered down at a corner table, he saw the couple from the post office, sipping whiskeys and poring over what might have been a map. By nature, Quentin didn’t trust those who took liquor too early in the day, and he struggled to reconcile their fine dress with their bad habits. He watched as the man rolled a cigarette, his long fingers tucking the tobacco into the paper, pink tongue flicking out to seal it. The woman spoke and he laughed, his teeth gleaming, and something roiled in Quentin’s stomach when he lit the cigarette in a performative flourish, so smooth that Quentin wasn’t even sure he’d seen a match. Certainly he was better suited to some club in New York or Chicago than a saloon in what could barely be called a town.

"You seen them before?" Kady said, flicking the rag in her hand toward the back of the room.

"Can’t say so," he said, uneasy. He took a sip of his beer, going quickly warm in his hands.

"They came in here asking folks what they knew about Cripple Creek and the strike," Kady said. "Which I know is not grounds for suspicion, what with the last few years bringing nothing but fortune-seekers, but don’t they look a little— _well dressed_ for a miner and his wife?"

Quentin shrugged. He, too, felt a little off put by their dress, but they were hardly the first couple to show up with the last clothes they owned, whatever finery they had sold off to make the trip out West. That what they’d kept was of higher quality could hardly be a mark against them.

Inexplicably, he heard himself ask, "You think they’re married?"

"Hell if I know," Kady said. She tilted her chin up toward them. "They look close enough.”

Quentin saw that Kady was right. The woman’s hand played over the man’s knuckles where his hand lay against the table, trailing lightly over them with a familiarity that Quentin had to admit seemed marital, at least by his measure. He saw also that she leaned forward, like perhaps she expected a kiss. The man briefly cupped her cheek, careful of the cigarette, and settled into his low-backed chair. His posture, the length of his lean body as he reclined, reminded Quentin of the boughs of the newly-matured apple trees. There was a thoughtless elegance to his repose that could only be born of natural inclination rather than any sort of practice.

To Quentin’s great terror, the man seemed to have a talent for sensing when people were looking at him and glanced up, just briefly enough that Quentin knew he’d been caught. Whip-quick, he turned to face the bar and a smirking Kady.

"Christ, Diaz, stop staring," he whispered.

"I’m the proprietor, I’ll stare whenever I want," she said, and did not match his secretive volume. She rolled her lips inward as if trying to contain an even bigger smile. "Here comes your man, by the way."

"No one is my— what?"

Before Kady could clarify, the man had sidled up to the bar beside Quentin.

"Afternoon," he said, leaning on his elbow. "Another two whiskeys, if you please." Quentin was again struck by the timbre of his voice. Despite the variety of people drawn to the mining camps nearby, this man seemed his own sort of removed. He had the faintest accent, not southern, exactly, but something close. He took his vowels soft and long and his consonants hard but round— it was not an entirely unfamiliar pattern, and his voice held in its center a sort of tenderness that tugged at something in Quentin. It belied an emptiness known to him and so many other children of the plains and mountains. After all these years, Quentin knew the sound of an orphan. 

"New in town?" Quentin asked.

"That obvious?" the man said, smiling. Still leaning, he turned his body so that Quentin could see in greater detail the finery he’d noted at the post office. His vest looked well-kept if not exactly new, its eight buttons shiny and unbroken and its lapels straight. His tie, so thoroughly excessive, was still tied in a practical four in hand, which Quentin had not noticed before. It made him think only a little better of this man, who was on at least his second whiskey before supper.

Still, his father had taught him his manners, and Quentin was nothing if not polite. "Only on account of your dress. No one around these parts has ever bothered to tie more than a hog."

The man nodded solemnly, as if Quentin’s neighbors and their lack of sophistication were a long-dead relative for whom he'd passed through mourning, but whose death still inspired a certain nostalgia. "Eliot Waugh," he said, extending a hand.

"Coldwater, ah, Quentin." Eliot’s hand was warm when he took it, his palm broad against Quentin’s own. The skin was rougher than he expected, failing to reconcile with the silk threads of his waistcoat.

" _Coldwater_?" Eliot said, incredulous. Something about the set of his mouth implied to Quentin that he was not, in fact, incredulous at all. Eliot accepted his drink from Kady and leveled his neat smile at Quentin in a way that made him feel awfully small.

"Yes? Is there a problem, is there a problem with my name?"

Eliot shrugged. "It’s a funny name," he said, like Quentin should’ve always known this. "Hardly your fault. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get this drink back to my companion before she comes and finds me."

Quentin, still struck a little dumb by such overt rudeness, only nodded. He watched as the man— as Eliot sauntered back to his table, ever careful of the drinks in his hands. Once seated, Eliot turned back to him and of all things, he _winked_. Quentin almost fell off his stool in his haste to turn away. It did not help his balance to see Kady's raised eyebrow.

"So," she said, licking her teeth, "did you find out if those two are married?"

"Please, shut up," Quentin said and buried his face in his hands. He did not turn around until he had Kady’s assurance that they were gone, passing the remainder of his beer and a second fully absorbed in his book.

Though the days grew longer, it was dusk by the time Quentin made the twelve miles back to the orchard. He made quick work of his evening chores— hurrying the chickens back into their coop, checking it for signs of intruders as he did and tossing them a handful of corn. On quick feet, he walked a brief lap through the blackberry bramble and the nearest part of the orchard, more out of habit than any need to ensure the plants’ safety. He stabled Janie and left her with an extra handful of oats for her trouble. Finally, he walked into the quiet house and paused a moment, listening for sounds of his bedridden father, still laid up in recovery from his most recent spell.

The house was dim in the waning light. Dust motes drifted across the cooling sunbeams, little reminders that life still moved within the walls. Quentin set his bag on the creaking wooden table and paused for a moment to watch them float over its surface, disappearing into the bends and crevices of the wood as much as shadows. There was a stillness to the house in these moments that made Quentin feel almost sad and reminded him of being a child. In truth, the day had left him feeling oddly melancholy, despite his earlier hope. His conversation with Kady and brief introduction with Eliot had reminded him of how little time he’d spent in the company of others in recent months, of how much he might have already missed in his short life. He felt a familiar, hollow ache beneath his breastbone as he hung his hat and jacket.

"Q," his father’s voice called from the back bedroom of the small house, "is that you?"

"Yeah, Pa, just a second," he said. It took another moment to draw a jug of water and Quentin spared another look around as he worked the pump, mindlessly moving through the gesture. He was born in this house, and would likely die in it just as his father would, if the bank didn’t get it first. He shook his head as he made his way out of the kitchen. Things were looking up, he thought. There was no reason for such melodrama.

"How’re you feeling?" Quentin asked as he set the jug on a low table. He settled carefully beside his father, turning his arms and legs to check for sores. The quilts were soft underneath his hands.

"Better, I think," Ted said. Quentin did his best not to react when Ted winced with his movements. His father was a man of great personal dignity, and Quentin felt as though he ought to look away, that he ought not to bear witness to his fragility. But this was necessary work, as essential as pruning the trees each year.

Satisfied at his condition, Quentin drew the blankets back up. Ted smiled and reached forward to pat Quentin's cheek. "All good in town?"

"I think so," Quentin said with a noncommittal nod. "Got word up to Colorado Springs, spent the afternoon reading. Kady sends her best. Her father is still chasing gold up in Victor but she seems to have strong run of the place."

Ted chuckled as he accepted the glass of water Quentin poured. "Nothing could surprise me less," he said. "Any other news?"

Quentin felt his face draw into a quizzical expression, as though his father might somehow know about Eliot and the way Quentin’s cheeks had burned upon their meeting. "No, not particularly."

Ted nodded and set the glass down, clearly preparing to speak. His hands settled across his middle, folded politely in an expression of contrition. Quentin waited as he gathered his thoughts and his breath, and tried to still the small eddy of anxiety that the gesture had stirred.

Finally he said, "I was thinking we could use some help with the harvest, an extra hand or two. I don’t know how much use I’ll be." He motioned to his body with an arthritic hand.

Quentin frowned. He did not think they could afford it, but refrained from saying so. "I can manage," he insisted.

"Not alone, you can’t," his father replied. Quentin felt a mild frustration curdling in his belly. Ted was right, of course; the bramble was far too expansive for one worker alone. Still, he resented any implication that he wasn’t up to a task. He had proven himself over and over again throughout the last year, in the orchard as well as the home, and felt unfairly judged in that moment.

Nevertheless, his father was a kind man, and surely did not mean to discount his son’s ethic or ability. Quentin sighed, reaching for his hand. "You don’t know how you’ll feel in the next couple of weeks, Pa. Don’t be hasty." 

Ted shook his head. "We’ll see," he said, in the paternal way that implied no further argument would be necessary. "You eaten?"

Quentin made them a quick supper and before too long settled into his own bed. Sleep was slow to take him, exhausted though he was from travel and his own poor mood. He turned onto his side, drawing one elbow beneath his head to watch the moon rise higher into the sky through his mottled window.

In the absence of rest, nighttime offered many opportunities to reflect on the ways in which he’d failed, and the ways in which the world had failed him. While he did wonder if he was too easily given to self-pity, it was only facts that the tide had not been in his favor of late. Last year’s rain had given them a weak harvest that had hardly tied them over through April, with few stores and even smaller profit. This, in combination with his father’s inability to help with daily chores for much of the winter and spring, had left Quentin to trudge through each day, quite lonely and with only the barest sense of purpose. He washed the linens, ensured his father took the tinctures Lipson brought; he checked the juvenile trees for signs of pests and disease and pruned their older siblings. He went about each day with increasing melancholy, his movements practiced and stiff. Only the duty he felt for his father kept him going; if he’d had a choice, there were whole weeks he would have spent lying in bed or prone beneath the cedarwoods.

And so the past several months had fallen behind him in a fog that was only just beginning to dissipate, though it still hung about him in moments such as these. He thought of the newer trees that would bring fruit this year, and the ground that was broken and ready for a new planting after harvest. A kernel of hope sat waiting in Quentin’s chest, tentative but ready to bloom should circumstances allow. After the new planting, he would have time to read again and perhaps, even, to write, as he had often dreamed before the realities of farming had set into his young body. The blackberries, bearing their first fruit since planting two years ago, seemed to him as ripe a metaphor as any for what the future may hold. It was this on which he tried to focus until the comfort of sleep found him at last.

Quentin’s mood steadily improved over the course of the next several days. He busied himself preparing for the harvest, monitoring the fruit with a diligence that his younger self would be amazed to see. His childhood vexation at his father's work gone, he now felt a certain sort of tenderness for the process. It gave him something toward which he could direct his energy, now that he suddenly found himself with a sunburst of it; the harvest gave him purpose where before he had none. The blackberries were small, but they were his, and they would provide a small profit for the Coldwaters before the apple crop come fall.

On a warm Saturday not too long after his trip to town, Quentin walked the perimeter of the blackberry patch. The sun shone brightly in his face as he looked out from under the brim of his hat, assessing the height and color of the plants, the state of the leaves and vines. Overall, he was pleased with the state of his crop. The trellises they'd been training now bore fruit and from the look of it, there would be enough to sell in town and to keep for jam, maybe even some for a cobbler or two at home.

He smiled to himself as he moved through the rows, hands careful of thorns while he checked the bushes for rot, tossing the few mushy berries further afield. He pulled off the low-hanging fruit that were more likely to attract ground squirrels and other pests, popping those on the edge of ripeness into his mouth and consigning those still green and white to the fates of their rotten brethren. The berries darkened as he moved toward the side exposed more to daily sun, and he found himself wondering if it wasn’t time to start the harvest, at least partially. Blackberries were hardy— they grew well in the half-desert air near the mountains and did not attract disease like apple trees did— but they were also delicate. He pushed down the surge of anxiety in his chest. He knew what he was doing.

As he neared the back of the patch, he half-swore he could hear someone singing. He tried to attribute it to his racing thoughts: that he had waited too long, that the berries were too ripe, until he couldn’t any longer. The tune carried with enough strength that he was all but sure its source lay just the other side of the bramble. He took a deep breath. Local children from the nearby farms sometimes wandered into the orchard, he knew, and while it irked him, he was not one given to a short temper. So he straightened his hat and stepped to look around the hedge.

Instead of children, he saw Eliot, dressed in shirtsleeves and bowed to the lowest reaches of the bramble. Quentin could see the sweat on the back of his neck, how his shoulder blades pulled his shirt taught as he worked. For a full minute, he stood there, watching Eliot, listening to him sing, before he remembered himself.

"Were you— are you rustling our berries?" Quentin asked, aghast. 

Eliot turned to give him a wry, toothy grin. "Is that what they’re calling it?" Despite the accusation, Eliot did not stop his dubious work, continuing to drop berries into the basket at his feet.

"Yes," he said, firm as he could manage. Finally, Eliot straightened, his hands on his hips in a mockery of authority. He raised his eyebrows and Quentin rolled his eyes, his exasperated hands tense where he held them out. "Well, no, not really. But you’re stealing my crop. _Why_ are you stealing my crop?" His irritation at the theft was dampened by the look in Eliot’s eye. He couldn’t imagine ever feeling angry with a face like that— eyes so bright and wide that he could see the white all around, eyelashes dark and thick; brows straight and perhaps, Quentin thought, neatly trimmed. The hollows of his cheeks caught the sunlight in a way that made Quentin want to try his hand at sculpture for the first time in his life, and his nose, somewhat large and curved, suited his face in a way that Quentin had only read about in British novels. Eliot was, Quentin did not feel not above admitting, startlingly beautiful, thief though he appeared to be.

"I'm not," Eliot said as he popped one ripe berry into his mouth. He caught it between his teeth and a little trail of juice dripped down his chin. "Your father, he hired Margo and me to help." He held out his hands and wiggled his fingers, as if demonstrating some illusion miraculously pulled off.

"That so?" Quentin said. He folded his arms across his chest as though they might protect him from Eliot’s charm. These were _his_ berries, his charge, an insouciant voice inside him said. Eliot and— Margo, apparently— had no business intruding on him like this.

"Mhm," said Eliot cheerfully. "In fact, Mr. Coldwater says we might can stay for the apple harvest come September. We’re a little hard up right now and could use the work." For some reason, Quentin doubted that Eliot had ever truly _needed_ work. The longer curls that grew restlessly from his crown gave him a foppish appearance that was not at all dampened by his rolled up sleeves or the sweat that shone along his collarbones. Men like Eliot walked through the world and bent it according to their needs, not the other way around. Quentin licked his lips as he prepared to speak.

"Indeed we are and indeed he did," called Margo, cutting Quentin off. In her arms, she carried one of the many baskets that they kept in the shed, wicker and stained blue and purple and red, half-full of plump blackberries. Again, Quentin found himself wanting to be frustrated— in fact, he knew he ought to be. He was suspicious of these travelers, of their casual manners and easy way of speaking, and angry at his father for being so gullible to their charms. He would have words with his father and felt some of particular choice working their way to his lips for Margo and Eliot, but it was no use when she smiled at him, her cheeks dimpling in the shade of her broad hat. "That all right by you, sweetheart?"

When he didn't respond, she said, "Sugarplum? Blossom? Most delicate flower of the desert?"

Before he could help himself, he smiled, albeit with reserve. Internally, he scolded himself for not keeping a harder line. He would be in charge of all of this soon, mostly already was. He needn’t act like some lovestruck schoolboy every time one of them spoke. Outloud, he said, "I suppose, if Pa says so."

"He does," Eliot said. Quentin blushed at his confidence, but did not miss the look Margo and Eliot exchanged. He felt distinctly conspired against in a way he had not felt since his parents had last tricked him into an early bedtime. Still, there was work to do. He straightened his shoulders.

"Well," Quentin said after a long pause, clearing his throat. "Let’s get on with it, then. They’re not ready yet toward the south side; it gets less sun on account of the orchard."

"Oh?"

"Yes ma’am. Y’all leave those be," Quentin said, and set off toward the house to find his father.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the lovely response so far! the first couple of chapters are always the hardest to write and i'm doing my best to keep it on a decent schedule; the encouragement is more meaningful than i can express.
> 
> thanks as always to portraitofemmy for holding my hand, this time through not one but _three_ rounds of betaing and helping me figure out some pacing issues.
> 
> i hope you're here for Yearning because we're in it for the long haul, now.

#### CHAPTER 2

* * *

Eliot kneeled at the open flaps of Margo’s tent. It was late, more than a few hours after the supper of bacon and toast they'd shared with the Coldwaters in their three-room house. The meal had been a pleasant if mildly tense affair, with Ted asking only the politest of questions and Quentin doing his best to keep a stern expression. It had been unduly precious, the way his brow furrowed and his mouth curved in a pout, even as he asked polite questions of his new guests. It was like watching a sapling insist that it was, in fact, an old gnarled oak.

Eliot, however, was not one to back down from a challenge, and so set about mounting a charm offensive. Having noticed the book Quentin read at the saloon, Eliot made sure to ask after it and the surly bartender with whom he’d been friendly. He did so in his sweetest voice, and naturally failed to mention that he and Margo had spent the better part of the afternoon partaking in Colorado’s finest liquors. Ted had appeared appropriately scandalized by his son’s midday drinking, and Eliot did not miss the opportunity to give Quentin a sly smile, making him blush even more deeply. 

All told, by the time he sat drinking coffee with Margo on the porch while Quentin looked after Ted, Eliot found himself pleasantly warm. A full belly and kind company were not lately familiar to him— though it might have been the dash of whiskey he’d dropped in own mug.

As he settled in at Margo’s feet, he took in the calm air. The early summer night was crisp over their heads, yet warm enough that their tents pitched out front would make sufficient accommodation for the time being. Eliot had stayed in far worse places and the Coldwater orchard, with its apple trees gone green with spring and its soft, scrubby ground, would do him just fine.

"So, what do you think of the new digs?" he asked as Margo adjusted her blankets. Always cold, she had accumulated a few of which she was especially fond, Navajo- or Hopi- made and third- or fifth-hand from travelers she had met throughout the Southwest, traded for songs or stories but more often stolen outright. Her covetousness had kept him alive more than once, and he loved her for it. Truthfully, he loved everything about her— her sharp wit, her gentle touch. She was his girl, his one and only.

"They’re fine," she said, fluffing her woolen pillow. Her dark hair glowed gold in the lantern light when she turned to face him. "Sufficient for our purposes."

"We just need to last long enough to get what we came for." As he spoke, he rubbed her foot placatingly through the blanket.

She shot him a playful glare before falling indelicately on her back. "Which is? You'll need to remind me, I've been blinded by the stars in your eyes for the Coldwater boy."

Eliot pulled at her toe; she pulled back and thrust her heel into his shin. "I've had no such stars," he said. 

"Uh huh," Margo said, "I assume you're still content with the plan? Because the Eliot I saw at supper seemed a little too interested in proving himself a suitor." She tilted her head to one side and smiled thinly. "Not that the boy isn’t handsome, but there will be pretty boys for us in San Francisco too, you know."

Eliot shrugged, feeling only a little defensive. "Of course I’m content." At her narrowed eyes, he said, "Bambi, you know it'll be easier to pull off if they trust us."

"Sure," she said, giving a short nod before turning onto her side, his signal to leave. He pushed up on the heels of his hands, ready to stand, until he heard Margo inhale. "Do you think," she said slowly, as though she were still working out what she wanted to say. She dipped her chin to her chest for a moment as she found the words. "Would it help if I looked after Ted? Quentin sure did spend a lot of time tending to him this evening when he could've been out porch sitting with you."

Eliot chewed his lip. He knew it was a dangerous proposition, to be given more time with Quentin. After the way he’d felt today— how easily he'd fallen into familiar teasing— it was none of it a good sign. Still, he reasoned, Margo had a point.

"I suppose so. You don’t mind?"

Margo shrugged underneath her blankets, a tectonic shift of her shoulders. "If it’ll get me out of the damn sun any earlier."

Eliot watched her for further movement. When it was only the steady rise and fall of her breath, he nodded to himself.

"Divide and conquer," Eliot agreed, and made to stand.

"But El?" she said. He paused, crouched a little awkwardly in the tent.

"What is it?"

"Just, remember what we came for. And where we're going."

Eliot reached down and gave her foot a final squeeze. "I will."

He left her there to rest, bedding down in his own tent not ten feet away. His blankets were not so fine as Margo's, but they were his, and they would do.

* * *

The next morning, Eliot traded his linen for rough cotton working clothes and set about learning the blackberry harvest with Margo at his side. The sun was bright white first thing, shining through the canvas of his tent, and as Eliot pulled on his clothes he felt an odd sort of excitement. It was a feeling, he realized, he used to get during calving season as a child— the promise of new things, the potential of change.

In all his life, that feeling had never led to much.

He shared watery coffee and toast with Margo while they waited for Quentin, who emerged before nine, dressed in brown trousers with suspenders blatantly visible over his shoulders in a way Eliot would ordinarily find gauche, if he did not find himself in such a similar position just then.

"Morning," Eliot called.

"Morning," Quentin agreed, tipping his hat. "Glad to see y’all figured out how to dress for work. Ready to learn the proper way to harvest?"

"If we must," Margo sighed. She held out her hand dramatically, waiting for Eliot to stand and take it.

"My lady," he said with equal flair. Over Margo’s shoulder, he was almost certain he caught Quentin in half a smile.

The house sat about three quarters off the blackberry patch, though it did not take half the walk before Eliot felt sweat gathering at the back of his neck. He would need a hat like Quentin wore, something straw and cheaper than his prized rabbit felt, that could stand to be soaked through. It was bad enough that he didn’t have gloves.

Despite his mild discomfort, there was no denying the way the landscape seemed to call them outward. All around them stretched red and yellow grasslands, dotted with tall firs and maples. The land flattened when the patch came into sight, and not long after they came upon a garden almost overgrown with weeds. Eliot could not resist turning off their path to investigate.

"There’s some herbs in there but it’s mostly carrots and potatoes now. Maybe some tomatoes," Quentin explained as he walked its edge. Though he appeared less agitated than he had at supper the previous night, there was still a firm set to his shoulders that Eliot felt determined to soften. "There might be some squash coming in, too, but I haven’t checked in a while."

Eliot crouched to observe the low rows of plants and noticed what appeared to be wilting basil and a bush of overgrown rosemary, neglected to the point of flowering. He shook his head.

"You think your daddy will mind if I tend it?"

Behind him, Quentin scoffed. "As long as you’re not expecting extra payment." 

Eliot rolled his eyes as he stood, casting a brief glance to Margo before leveling his gaze at Quentin. Like the day before, his long hair was tied back, and he hadn’t seemed to have bothered with shaving that morning. His eyes were narrow and challenging beneath the brim of his hat and his arms were crossed against his chest. These barriers needed breaking, Eliot knew. There was no hope for anything if Quentin didn’t trust them. 

And in truth, a treacherous part of Eliot felt oddly drawn to the quiet young man since their encounter at the saloon. There has been something sad to his countenance that belied his dimples and narrowed eyes, and Eliot had noticed the way Quentin had looked at him yesterday when he came upon him in the patch; the heated and yet nervous weight to his gaze. There was something familiar about him, something magnetic. It tugged at Eliot’s heartstrings like an impatient toddler at his feet. 

"I don’t know what we’ve done to offend you so," Eliot said carefully, "but we’re here to work. If you don’t want our help, we’re happy to leave."

A deep crimson flush spread across Quentin’s face, his stony expression cracking. Though he kept his arms crossed, Eliot saw with no small degree of pleasure that his brow relaxed, and that his eyes went a little wide. "I— I’ll be honest with you," he stammered, looking from Margo and back to Eliot, then took a deep breath as if to gather himself. "My father, frankly, he ain’t been well the last few months and it was his idea to hire help. I wasn’t too keen on the idea and he didn’t consult me on it neither, and I’m only— I’m sorry," he said, deflated at last. His hands, extended in front of him now, were tangled in an awkward gesture of contrition. "I know I’ve been awful rude. I suppose I just want y’all to know who’s boss." At that, he smiled— more accurately, he grimaced.

Something near Eliot’s heart went a little tight. He nodded shortly. "I understand," he said. "Let’s start over." He straightened his sleeves and brushed imaginary dirt from his trousers. He cleared his throat and doffed his hat, holding it over his heart.

"Mr. Coldwater," he began, "we heard you were looking for help ‘round the orchard. Now, Ms. Hanson and me, we were just passing through, hoping to make our way out to California. We haven’t a penny to our names and -"

"We’re hard workers," Margo continued, stepping forward. "We won’t be any bother."

"That’s right," Eliot said. "We aren’t but humble orphans and we’ve worked most our lives to earn our keep. We’ll take any work you have." He bit his lip and cast his best pleading eyes on Quentin.

"Please do consider us, Mr. Coldwater," Margo finished in a watery voice.

Quentin stared at them for a minute. His expression journeyed rapidly from confused to annoyed, to— if Eliot was not mistaken— relief. Then there were dimples in his cheeks as he smiled broadly, though still without any teeth, as though he’d rather hide it. Clearly, this boy had never told a lie in his life; Eliot had half a mind to check his sleeve for a beating heart. Before he could stop himself, he returned the smile in kind.

"Ms. Hanson, Mr. Waugh," Quentin said, shaking each of their hands in turn, "I’d be delighted to have your help."

Eliot held his hand a little longer than was strictly necessary, enjoying the feeling of Quentin’s palm against his own. "Friends, then?"

"Friends," Quentin agreed. He gave Eliot’s hand one last, vigorous squeeze. "And no, I don’t think Pa will mind if you look after the garden. Lord knows he’s probably as sick of beans and toast as I am."

The air around them seemed lighter as they made the rest of the trek. They wound up and crested a small knoll before the land opened up to the patch, and Eliot finally took stock of the orchard itself. It seemed to stretch infinitely, though it couldn’t have been more than 40 or 50 acres. Each spindly tree supported hundreds of small pink blossoms, so dense that the trees themselves seemed objects of fairy tales. Beyond it stretched uncountable miles of dusty scrubland interspersed with the unnaturally green copses of neighboring orchards and farms, their blooming fruit trees a wash of blush. Above it all, the snowcapped mountains loomed maternally.

They approached the bramble and took the middle path. The shrubs were hardly shrubs, Eliot thought, standing at least seven feet tall and towering above even him. As they walked further into the patch, he had the sense that they were disappearing, walking into some other world from which they were not likely to return.

"So like I told y’all, the bushes toward the south aren’t ready just yet," Quentin told them seriously as they walked through the bramble, baskets in hand. 

"Understood," Eliot said. Quentin shot him a playful glare over his shoulder, as though he still thought Eliot to be teasing him. Eliot smiled to himself, oddly determined. He could be a good student, his track record in the schoolhouse notwithstanding.

They approached a bush that Quentin apparently deemed ready for harvest. He set his basket down and tipped his hat forward, motioning Eliot and Margo to approach.

"Now see, there are riper berries at the front," he said, pulling a handful of the plant forward. They were deliciously dark, blue and purple like the deepest bruise and glistening with morning dew. "We want to get those first to let light in through the leaves and ripen up the rest. Don’t pick ones that are still green, and avoid reddish ones for now, too. Once you’ve gone over a bush, don’t touch it again for three or four more days. They won’t be ready."

Eliot and Margo drew in closer on either side of him. Eliot caught the faintest scent of him— sweat, cotton, something vegetal like dried grass and cut yucca. Just beneath Quentin’s loose collar, he could see the lighter skin of his back.

"Those look about there," Eliot said, reaching forward to squeeze one of the small, plump berries.

"Good eye," Quentin said, nodding. "They need to be firm enough for transport. And be careful not to load ‘em too heavy like you did yesterday; they’ll bruise."

If Eliot had been one to blush, he might have done so then.

"You sell these?" Margo asked as she reached across Quentin to see for herself.

"Only in Florence, so they don’t go too far," Quentin said. "For the apples, though, we’ve got a distributor up in Colorado Springs. To be honest, that’s where the real money— and the real work— is. Blackberries are just a, well," he paused and held out one hand, as if waiting for someone to drop the right words into his palm. "A stop gap."

Eliot turned to look up at Margo and saw a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. _Not now._

Eliot cleared his throat. "What about the berries at the top?" he asked, standing and squinting into the sun. Quentin nudged him with his elbow.

"Now, Mr. Waugh, that’s where you come in. I can reach them with a stool but," Quentin said and gestured down at his body, "you’re much better suited it than either me or Pa."

"Or me," Margo said gleefully, taking Quentin’s arm. The pair of them, Eliot could already see, would find their friendship in tormenting him.

Eliot tilted his head back and sighed. "Am I to be your enslaved giant," he said to the sun, searching his memory for an appropriate metaphor, "working the fields like some agrarian Sisyphus, never to see an end to my labor?" He kept his eyes upward as he waited for Quentin’s reply.

"Is he always like this?" Quentin asked casually.

"Oh, _always_." Margo’s voice was nearly as dramatic as Eliot’s and he shot her a loving glare.

"I see I’m alone here," Eliot lamented. He reached for the furthest heights of the bush and plucked a few free, popping them into his mouth before Quentin could object. He winked at Quentin as he bit down.

"Your father won’t be joining us?" he asked around a mouthful of berries.

Quentin shook his head. "To be honest, he shouldn’t have even had supper at the table yesterday— which, if you see him out of bed again, tell him to get back in it, won’t you?" His voice contained a sincere note of worry underneath its harder edge of frustration.

"Of course," Margo said. "I was going to mention— I could help. If he’s been sick for months you must be in want of a rest yourself."

"Oh," Quentin said, dumbstruck. The briefest moment of disbelief seemed to pass over his face before he softened. "I guess, if that’s, well. If it’s something you want to do?"

"Sure," she said easily. "I took care of my granny back home, or helped my mama anyway. If your father agrees, you can show me what to do after supper. We won’t let him out of bed for it, this time." Eliot admired the gentle tone she affected, knowing how much effort it took for her to soften her cadence just so.

Quentin appeared to think it over, though how he could be anything but eager to take the opportunity was beyond Eliot’s imagination. The thought of chamber pots and bedsores made him shiver with discomfort.

"All right," Quentin finally said. "We’ll see what Pa says. I suspect he’ll be glad to look at anyone that’s not me after this winter."

Margo smiled at him and reached forward to grip his shoulder. "We’ll get you some rest yet," she said, and picked up her basket. "Now let’s get to work."

Blackberry picking, Eliot learned, was not as easy as he initially perceived. After they set to it, he found that the berries themselves were even more fragile than he anticipated— he must've ruined more than a few the day before during his cavalier beginning. He learned the hard way that the brambles were vicious things, hiding the fruit in long thorns that were often impossible to see against the dark foliage, and the first day left him with all manner of scratches. Far from an easy cover while he and Margo bided their time, the task proved itself much closer to hard labor than either of them anticipated.

Even so, Eliot found the situation mostly agreeable. The weather was fine, the morning air and an occasional breeze cooling the skin at his nape. He found that as the sun warmed his skin, contentment seemed to settle into his bones. There was something to be said about having a task to set about in the morning, something simple and satisfying as picking fruit. Despite the doldrum nature of the task, Eliot found himself at ease for the first time in recent memory.

After a long afternoon in the sun, Eliot went down to the creek to wash, leaving Margo to the bathtub and Quentin to the kitchen basin. The creek lay behind the house, down a mild incline. Cottonwoods and maples shaded its shore, giving him a place of respite and privacy— no small feat after years on the road. The water was cold and clear, as it was melt from the mountains and was not so heated by the early summer sun, and wide, smooth rocks shored up the bank on either side. It left him plenty of space to strip as little or as much as he pleased without risking mud on his clothes. 

It wasn’t necessary to take a whole bath, but he allowed himself the leisure of stripping down and taking his time to slowly drop into the water. The same smooth rocks that sat on the shore were slick beneath his feet and he sunk below the surface, scrubbing the sweat from his scalp. Behind his closed eyes, he saw the day pass again before him: the bright sun over the berries, the parentheses of Quentin’s dimples. He did not think of Taos, or of Carlsbad, or of any of the things that had led him here.

"I don’t mind fixing supper," he said when he walked into the kitchen that night, rolling up his sleeves. "It’s the least I can do after y’all took me and Margo on."

Quentin turned back and gave half a smile, a crescent moon in the low light of the kitchen. He stepped back from the stove and gestured for Eliot to approach. "Well, I don’t know what you know about beans," he said, a smile on his lips.

"Oh, you know," Eliot said as he took the wooden spoon from Quentin’s hand. He brought it to his lips and coughed at the unexpected saltiness. "You might’ve said it was _pork_ and beans," he laughed.

"Christ, I’m sorry. It’s all we get around here."

"No matter. I know you’re all cleaned up but— would you mind going to see if any of that rosemary is still good? Don’t pick anything with flowers on it."

Quentin looked up at him with those same eyes he’d given Margo earlier, like he couldn’t believe anyone would be so kind as to offer care or assistance— somewhere between suspicion and awe. Eliot did his best, then, to return his gaze with warmth, and canted his hip to nudge at Quentin’s side. 

"Go on," he said sweetly.

"I’m going," Quentin said, and scurried out the door.

Eliot smiled and shook his head, returning his attention to the pot on the stove. The boy was truly precious, almost seemed eager to please. Clearly what had passed between them that morning had flipped some sort of switch in him. Something warm gathered underneath Eliot's ribs; Quentin made it easy to feel at home.

Margo emerged from Ted’s bedroom, then, laughing and calling something back over her shoulder.

"Getting on well, then?" he asked. Margo dipped a finger in the pot and licked it.

"Salty," she said, wincing. "But yes, Ted’s a delight."

"A delight or a _delight_?"

Margo slapped his shoulder. "Don’t be foul. He’s a kind man— extraordinarily so, to be quite honest. Never thought I’d be all right helping a man out of his drawers only to pull fresh ones on, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything."

"I suppose there is," Eliot conceded. "Will you see if they have anything in the pantry— potatoes, carrots, _something_? It’s a sad state of affairs over here."

By the time Quentin returned, a few sprigs of rosemary in hand, Eliot had peeled six potatoes and set them to boil beside the beans. He’d found the store of butter and if nothing else, knew that he could make a good mash, something soft and comforting that would compliment the Tabasco he’d found on a back shelf. It would be a solid meal, he thought; something a little more flavorful and a little more fortifying than their usual fare. Certainly the Coldwaters’ spirits would be lifted by flavor beyond salt and starch; certainly they would benefit from even the smallest care.

Quentin, it turned out, heartily agreed.

"Eliot, what did you _do_?" Quentin asked after his first mouthful.

Eliot shrugged, a false modesty if ever he knew one. "You telling me y’all grow that rosemary and never use it?" 

"Mostly we save it for chickens," he admitted. 

"Oh, Quentin," Margo sighed. "Eliot has so much to show you."

"That so?" Quentin said. Eliot looked toward him in time to catch his small smile, something private and sure. Something in Quentin’s expression— the quirk of his mouth, the way he seemed to draw on lip into bite, and worst, the warmth of his gaze— something of it was a dare.

"Indeed," Eliot agreed, and tucked into his supper.

* * *

Throughout that first week, Eliot took immense pleasure in discerning the Coldwaters’ tastes. He learned that Quentin preferred the fruit of the orchard over the jerky they dried and even the fresh meat they bought in town; he learned that Ted would sooner sell his land than forego butter with his toast. He took it upon himself to braid the garlic that had been left to stale in its baskets, and spent his Saturday afternoon preparing loaves of bread for their week, on which Quentin burned his overeager tongue. He knew that he might be growing too deep of roots, thin as they were, but he could not help himself. It was in his nature to make his home wherever he went. That the Coldwaters seemed to welcome and even appreciate his nesting did not discourage him.

The days grew warmer, though the evenings still brought with them a cool breeze that dried his brow, and he felt oddly satisfied with his quotidian accomplishments. The routine was mostly the same: rise early, a simple breakfast, then a few chores before they tended to the brambles. Then there was a lunch of bread and smoked meat or eggs— plus tomatoes, thanks to Eliot— and back to the bramble until washing up. Eliot did not conceive that blackberries could be so much work, but the plants had put forth a bountiful crop, and between them and the rest of the chores they worked five days, with half a day on Saturday and Sunday to rest.

They four went on in this manner for most of June. As agreed, Margo took to caring for Ted, a task that often took much of her day and left Eliot working later in the day alongside Quentin. Eliot looked forward to these afternoons. Against his better judgement, he grew a steady affection for the quiet man who was not in actuality all that quiet, but rather filled the days and the space in between them with his thoughts and unfiltered words. Quentin seemed to have a streak of curiosity, of openness in him that was undeniably magnetic.

He listened when Quentin spoke of the land, of the apples and the berries and his plans for apricots; he listened, oddly enraptured, when he spoke of his regret that there was no proper bookstore in Florence, only the general that sometimes procured serials several months after the fact and only rarely new novels that he craved. In turn, Eliot gave half-truths about his childhood on his family’s cattle ranch, and larger truths about his hopes for California— how he dreamed of the stage, the life he longed for that did not ever again involve wrangling animals or tilling land. He did not know why he felt so compelled to tell Quentin these things, but it was clear that Quentin was not given to teasing, and so Eliot trusted him with these small pieces of himself. 

And, frankly, the view throughout the day was one of the better that Eliot had lately taken. Having always considered himself a hedonist, he did not shy away from taking pleasure in watching sweat collect at the top of Quentin’s collar, which was usually loose and always seemed to allude to a more muscled chest than Quentin’s pinched brow would imply. This was confirmed as it grew steadily hotter, when Quentin got into the somewhat indecorous habit of wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. If he was close by, Eliot did not resist admiring the soft planes of Quentin’s chest and belly, and offered only the slightest smile when Quentin caught him staring. The flush over Quentin's face quickly grew into one Eliot's favorite things.

Whether Quentin understood what Eliot’s gaze meant did not matter; that he knew Eliot was looking was enough.

"That sounds nice," Quentin said as he hauled baskets into the wagon, taking them from Eliot’s higher reach on the ground. Tomorrow, Margo and Ted would drive into Florence for the Saturday market, and it was on Eliot and Quentin to sort those that would be best kept for jam from those that might sell to ranchers’ wives in town. It was thanks to Margo that Ted was able to make the trip at all— her devoted care saw Ted able to take evening walks around the garden before long, his balance steady and his knees strong. They were halfway through the harvest.

"All flights of fancy sound nice, Quentin," Eliot said. He handed the final basket up and smiled, squinting into the late afternoon sun. "That’s what makes them fancy."

Quentin paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, cutting a striking figure where he stood in the wagon bed. "You don’t think you can do it, then?"

Eliot shrugged. He was unsure of any likelihood; had lived long enough to know better than to go making too many plans. What he and Margo would do in the coming days was as far as he could see.

"What about you?" Eliot said.

Quentin looked thoughtful as he and Eliot worked to tighten the canvas over the top of the wagon. "What about me?" he asked, dusting off his hands. He took a seat at the edge of the wagon and took a swig from his canteen. Eliot finished rolling a cigarette, giving himself a moment to think before he spoke again.

"Don’t you have things you want? That are yours alone?" he said. Unsteady, he took a drag from his cigarette and leaned back, gently knocking Quentin’s heel with his boot as he did. "Well?"

"There are things that would be nice, I suppose. It would be _nice_ to be happier, it would be _nice_ to have books to read and to have, hell, more people around. But I don’t— I don’t mind the trees and the fruit and the land. It’s hard work, sure, but it’s not the worst hand I might’ve been dealt." Quentin paused and rubbed his chin. "Is that sad, d’you think? That I’ve never really thought about a different life?"

Eliot considered asking what he meant about happiness, but thought better of it. Instead he blew out a long breath of smoke and said, "No, I don’t reckon so. It means you’re content. There are worse things than being content."

Quentin looked at him, then, ever earnest and open but still questioning. Eliot could see the slightly pinched look of his brow, the way the sun cast over his face and the sharp shadow cut by his hat. He was not sure that anyone had ever looked at him like Quentin had taken to doing, like he saw him, like there was something in Eliot he searched for. He blinked long and slow against his gaze, staving off the hunt.

"Are you? Content, I mean?"

"Me?" Eliot laughed. He passed his cigarette to Quentin for the final drag, felt the warmth of his fingers as he did. "I’ve always had this notion that I was meant for better things— bigger things, you know. Time has yet to tell what exactly those are or if that’s been for the better."

"I take it bigger things don’t include playing innkeep for an invalid and his unfortunately short-statured, hirsute son?"

Eliot couldn’t help it, he tossed his head back and laughed. Before he thought about it, he threw his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, stopping just short of laying a dramatic kiss to the top of his head like he might to do Margo. His stomach fluttered when Quentin did not flinch away as some men might.

"I imagine it keeps you quite warm in winter."

"Not as warm as you’d think," Quentin conceded. Eliot felt the weight of him against his side and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the contact; he was an affectionate man, at his center, and it had been some time since he had enjoyed new companionship. For a fleeting moment, he felt Quentin’s arm curl around his waist, felt his fingers play just so over his shirt, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Then Quentin was standing, dusting off his trousers. "C’mon," he said. "Let’s get washed up."

The next morning, Eliot found himself in the small house, standing over the wood stove stirring a large copper pot full of berries. Beside him, Quentin readied a row of sparkling jars for sanitation. While the process of making jam was reasonably quick, he knew that most of their day would be spent soaked in steam from the waterbaths and carefully spooning the preserves into the jars. Exhausting though it was, he looked forward to the end result. He could picture it already— rows and rows of jars, their contents so delectably dark that little light would get through. It would sweeten their breakfasts and stir well into gin, he thought, and they might even mix in some mint for a wintertime treat. He shook his head to keep from laughing at himself for imagining life on the farm in winter, by which time he and Margo would be long gone. 

"What’s so funny?" Quentin said. His hair was tied back and a few stray pieces fell in his face. Eliot could see the shadow of his beard at the hinge of his jaw and it occurred to him that this was a novel sight— Quentin so rarely allowed his full face to be seen. Eliot thought this a tremendous shame, and was grateful of the opportunity. It felt like a special allowance, to be able to see Quentin's full, handsome face; to have it all to himself while Margo and Ted worked their stall at the small market in Florence.

"Oh nothing, just picturing you in gingham."

Quentin nudged him with one shoulder. "I think I’d look fetching," he said. "A real homesteader, hirsute and all."

"I don’t doubt it," Eliot laughed. He watched as Quentin twirled like one might model an apron, his hands on his hips and his chin thrown over one shoulder. A few loose hairs fell gently and dramatically over his face, sticking a little to the sweat at this forehead, and Eliot had the strongest urge to reach forward and brush them back. The need to reach out, to hold, to touch, was almost too strong to resist— a need built up over years of loneliness, of absence. He had the sense in that moment, as Quentin spun around the kitchen, that he was creating a centrifuge, that if he moved fast enough he might separate them both into their contingent parts; he would see right to the very center of Eliot, to all of his knotted up insides. It was exhilarating and awful and he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his young, old life.

Eliot took a deep breath and smiled.

"Jam’s about done," he said, and smashed the berries one last time. He dipped a spoon into the hot mixture and blew on it gently, holding it out for Quentin to taste. Eliot neglected the light feeling in his belly as Quentin accepted it, instead focusing on the pressure of Quentin’s tongue as he licked at the spoon, the way it moved just slightly in his fingers.

"Good?"

"Perfect," Quentin said, and Eliot noticed a small smudge of sticky purple at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, he gave in— he reached forward to wipe it away with his thumb, and let his hand rest for just a moment on Quentin’s cheek. It was only a moment, Eliot would think later. It was only a moment.

And yet the grandest things were built on such moments. Decisions made, actions taken or not taken. Wars were declared and peace treaties drawn; boundaries and borders just the same. Every second held in its breadth infinite potential, to declare or to reject; to leave or to stay. The whole world was built on the same sort of moment in which Eliot left his palm against Quentin’s skin.

Then his hand fell to Quentin’s shoulder, briefly squeezing and pushing him back. He didn’t see Quentin’s face as he moved toward the sink to fill another, somehow bigger pot. But by the time he edged Eliot away from the stove, he was smiling.

Eliot bit his lip as a gentle warmth bubbled under his ribs. Surely he’d misread the entire thing; certainly the lovely curve of Quentin’s mouth had been imagined. Yet like the day before, when Quentin had pressed against him, Eliot found himself unable to forget the weight of his touch.

The kitchen, which had begun the day at a low boil as sun beat heavily above, now graduated to near-tropical with the humidity of the water bath. Quentin's hair stuck to his neck and he wiped his brow often as he lowered and lifted the jars in and out of the pot. The knob at the top of his spine was visible above his collar, stripped down as he was, and it was all too easy for Eliot to imagine placing his lips there and wrapping his arms around Quentin's slim waist. Startled by the feeling, Eliot swallowed the desire that roiled in his chest. It was one thing to feel attraction, and another thing entirely to act on it. Their plans would be hard enough on him without throwing anything like this into the mixture— or worse, they'd be ruined all together.

There had been plenty of boys over the last few years, in saloons and on cattle drives and in mining camps. Yet as Eliot watched Quentin work, he had the sense that the sweat collecting at his nape was not solely the fault of summer nor due to the humidity in the room.

Careful as they could, they began pouring the jam into the jars. It was a delicate process, involving ladles and funnels and more than one spoon put through the boil. Eliot managed to endure the work with minimal distraction, though Quentin’s propensity for jokes and listing against him at the punchline made it unspeakably difficult.

When Margo and Ted returned, Eliot stepped back from his work at the table to greet them. He noticed that Ted seemed to scurry in spite of his cane to his bedroom and to the left, where Eliot was certain his small chest of drawers stood, and then there was the creak of something like an old hinge or floorboard. He locked eyes with Margo, shifting his gaze to guide her back.

As if she'd read his mind, Margo nodded, her mouth drawing up into a knowing smile. She schooled her expression when Ted reemerged.

"Well I can't thank Margo enough for helping me out today," Ted said affably as he took a seat at the table where Quentin still dutifully funnelled jam into its jars. "Most of what we sold we did by folks wanting a chance to talk to her." He winked in a way that struck Eliot as uncommonly paternal.

"That so, honey?" Eliot said, smiling at the pair of them.

Margo rolled her eyes and curtsied. "That it is," she said with not a small degree of fondness. "I expect proposals from Mr. _and_ Mrs. McDaniel within a fortnight." Ted patted her back and pulled out a chair for her to sit at the table where Quentin, who hadn’t acknowledged them beyond a brief smile and nod, still worked. He looked as studious as ever, his brow creased and his hand a little shaky from the effort. He looked, well— _adorable_ was the word that sprang to Eliot’s mind, sweat beading at his temple and his square hands moving only somewhat elegantly through the process of canning the jam. It was a look of uncommon care, as if even the smallest tasks carried greater weight than anyone could understand. It wasn’t surprising, really, that the boy who taught Eliot to pluck delicate berries and who cared so deeply for his father should pour equal energy into jam, and yet it was altogether overwhelming to witness.

So caught up Eliot was in his observations that he almost missed it as the funnel tilted to one side. He leaned over Quentin's shoulder to steady it, stretching his arm alongside Quentin’s to take the ladle from his hand.

"Easy," he said. He was close enough, almost— not quite— to feel the soft skin of Quentin’s ear on his lips. Before he could stop himself, he thought about moving to— he shuddered, his knees weak— to press his lips to the crease of his ear and neck, to tuck his affection somewhere secret where only Quentin would find it.

"I got it," Quentin said, low and quiet. Even so, he did not attempt to take the ladle back from Eliot, and Eliot did not move away. Instead they stayed pressed close together, where Eliot could feel the warmth of Quentin’s body and, if he wasn’t mistaken, the shiver that passed over his shoulders.

"There we go," Eliot said and his voice— Christ, it was almost a croak as it worked its way out. He felt Quentin nod against his shoulder and, after a moment mustering far more willpower than he cared to admit, pulled away. When he straightened, Margo’s eyes were on him, an eyebrow raised. 

He dusted off his trousers; she straightened her sleeves, tugging at the blue cotton. He gave her his best smile; she tilted her head to show the fine lace of her collar. They were like birds, Eliot thought, everything unspoken shimmering beneath their plumage.

Then Ted’s voice broke their dance. "Eliot," he said, "you mind going to round up the chickens?"

He shook his head and smiled. "Of course not."

He did not think about the shell of Quentin’s ear against his lips, or the feeling of his waist under his hands, until he was alone in his tent that night.

* * *

"What are we doing?" Margo sighed as they stood over a bowl full of freshly scrubbed carrots. He delicately ran the peeler over the skin, careful of each ridge to preserve as much of the vegetable as possible. They’d dug them up that afternoon, he and Quentin, crouched together in the garden. The dirt was cold and sandy in their hands, Quentin’s face was— golden, soft, in the waning light. He smiled something small to himself as he worked.

Next to him, Margo stripped each carrot with increasing ferocity, each gesture more violent with each moment he stayed silent.

"Peeling carrots, Bambi," he said easily. "What’s it look like?"

She elbowed him in the ribs. It wasn’t a gesture entirely malicious, but it was still sharp enough to get his attention. "Don’t be an ass."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you refer to."

" _This_ ," she hissed, holding up her peeler in sudden, severe indignation. "We’re practically playing house." Eliot glanced over his shoulder to where Quentin sat near the door, sewing a button. His brow was creased in concentration; he didn’t seem to notice the slight commotion across the room.

"I’m not doing anything I haven’t done before," Eliot insisted. And it was true, he knew as well as Margo did. "What’s the difference between this and El Paso?"

"We were in El Paso less than a month and we made our move," she said. "That was twice the job this is and yet— we’ve been here almost as long and have made no progress."

"Patience, sweetheart. We know where their stash is, but it's not time yet." he said, condescension thick on his tongue. He felt irritation under his skin, manifested in a slight quiver of his left hand as he worked. His mood was quickly souring, fruit left too long in the damp.

Margo dropped her peeler with a righteous thud.

"Patience is not the goddamned issue, here, Eliot. You're out here spending your days pining after the boy while I'm stuck playing nursemaid."

" _You_ suggested it, Margo." He would not look at her as he spoke.

"When I thought we'd have the money and be _gone_ by now," she snapped.

He cast a glance over his shoulder to see if Quentin noticed them, but he was gone. "Keep your voice down," he whispered. "You want them to hear you?"

She glared up at him. "If it'll make you do something other than cream potatoes, then I don't give a shit. What’s your big plan here, huh? What do you really want out of this?"

Eliot balked. He felt himself retreat inward, as if Margo weren’t his closest friend, the person he loved most in the whole of the country, the world, the universe. Couldn’t she see that he was trying? That he wouldn’t subject himself to such labor if not for her, that— that nothing was more important to him than following through with what he’d promised, back in Carlsbad: that he’d always take care of her, that he’d never put anything before the two of them, in front of everything that they hoped for.

He took a deep breath. "Bambi," he said, gentler this time, though he did not stop his work. "I’m working on it, I promise."

"Are you?"

" _Yes_ ,” he said sharply before he caught himself again. "I need more time, is all."

Margo regarded him for a long moment. He watched her only in his periphery, refusing to give up his peeler, as if that would signal his defeat. Still, he could feel the angry heat of her gaze, roiling under his skin and into his own burning chest.

Eliot said, "Let’s just— can we get through supper?"

"You can get through supper all on your own," Margo said. "I’m not hungry anymore." Eliot frowned as he watched her turn on her heel and leave. He stared down at the half-peeled carrots, their rough outer layers littering the table top like hay. Slowly, he took a deep breath, in, out, in again, until his grip on the peeler loosened. When he heard footsteps he took one last breath before resuming his work.

"Where’d Margo get to?" Quentin’s voice asked behind him.

Eliot shrugged. "I’ve gone and ruffled her feathers, as I’m wont to do." he said. "Will you help me finish these?"

Quentin hummed his assent and took Margo’s place beside him. Eliot was grateful that he didn’t seem interested in the exact nature of their fight, and the rest of the night passed without further incident.

The next morning, Eliot awoke already exhausted. He hadn’t slept well, disconsolate as he was at his bout with Margo, and none the better for the whiskey he’d taken alone in his tent. So he went about his work clumsily, scraping his knuckles on the bramble as he grabbed at the berries thoughtlessly. He tossed them into his basket, not caring if he bruised them or if he stained his fingers with crushed purple flesh. He didn’t talk to Quentin or to Ted, who deemed himself now healthy enough to join them in the fields. Above all, he did not speak to Margo, who worked in equally stony silence at the opposite end of the row.

Eliot was angry, he realized around ten, when the heat of the sun began to make itself known across his shoulders— angry at Margo, at the implication that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he couldn’t be trusted. Margo knew him better than anyone and yet, she still thought of him as something so low as incompetent, as reckless, as if he hadn’t learned, as if he hadn’t nearly drowned in a gutter in Taos, as if he weren’t _still trying_ to prove himself every day. Again and again, he shoved his hand into the bramble, plucking the berries, dropping them, plucking, and dropping, and plucking and dropping and— Eliot was furious, the resentment boiling under his skin until his hand was shaking until—

He found himself with a bloodied palm. As he examined the wound, he regretted his frustration, his carelessness. It was not a terribly deep cut, but it had sliced enough capillaries to make a mild horror of his hand.

Ted stood closest to him, elbow deep in the bramble. On creaking knees he walked quickly to Eliot’s side.

"Quentin," he called, "run up to the house and get the iodine, won’t you?" He took Eliot’s hand and examined it. "That’s a nasty one, son."

Eliot shrugged, feeling uncharacteristically sheepish. He tried to smile in thanks, but his mouth hardly moved. Ted generously responded in kind, his tired eyes squinting in the daylight. For the briefest moment, Eliot felt guilty for what he might do to this man, who treated Margo with such deference and his son with such love. He shook off the feeling when Margo approached and took his hand from Ted’s firm grasp.

"Christ, El, what’d you do?" Her voice sounded equally concerned and agitated, as though Eliot had deliberately injured himself. The notion kicked up a resentful storm in his chest, as though he were a scolded child. _It’s all fun and games until one of us gets hurt_ , she may as well have said.

"Would everyone just stop worrying about me?" Eliot snapped, drawing his hand back toward his chest and pressing his own thumb against the wound. "It’s fine, hardly a scratch."

Margo shook her head. Eliot frowned, felt it deep in the muscles of his face.

"I’m _fine_ ," he repeated. Just then, Quentin emerged from around the hedge, carrying a small brown bottle and a bundle of cloth that Eliot supposed would constitute an unnecessary bandage. Margo touched his shoulder to indicate he should release his injured hand.

"Careful with this one," she said to Quentin, "he’s liable to kick you in the teeth if he gets a stone stuck in his shoe."

Quentin gave her a bemused expression that lingered too long for Eliot to ignore— the tilt of his brow, the curve of his mouth— it was like he and Margo had a secret form of communication with which to discuss Eliot. He watched as Quentin's eyes flickered up to Margo’s, then briefly to Eliot’s, and back to Margo’s. "Well," he said, careful as anything, "I’m pretty good with horses."

To Eliot’s great surprise, Margo let out an abrupt laugh. "See that you are," she said, and reached up to flick Eliot’s ear before returning to her work.

"Isn't this excessive?" Eliot asked as he gave himself over to Quentin’s care.

"All manner of infection come by thorns," Quentin said. Though the application stung, Eliot did not pull away. Quentin’s hands were delicate where they cradled Eliot’s own, and he found himself oddly touched by the tenderness with which Quentin daubed at the edges of the wound and even with which he pressed it to stem the bleeding. Eliot noticed that Quentin’s hands were nearly as large as his own, despite the half foot of height that separated them. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed such a striking detail in the previous weeks and felt suddenly closer to Quentin, as if this similarity between them was something they had been both been keeping a secret until now. "You really got yourself good, huh?"

"Blame Eros," Eliot said, almost thoughtlessly. Quentin squinted up at him and for a moment, Eliot saw one corner of his mouth beg toward a smile. His brown eyes shone honey-gold in the late morning sun; his eyelashes cast long shadows against his cheeks. Eliot bit his cheek. His anger gone, his stomach dropped in a pleasant swoop. 

"I wouldn’t know about that," Quentin said as he tied the bandage around Eliot's palm. "I thought it was only roses' thorns."

Eliot smiled in spite of himself. He offered his thanks and was struck with the most absurd desire to draw Quentin’s hand to his lips, a desire more naked and yet more chaste than the need he’d felt in the kitchen. That Quentin could soothe him with such ease, with only a smile and gentle touch, unnerved Eliot deeply. He returned to the bramble before his body made a decision for which he would not be able to face the consequences.

Even so, as he worked beside Margo after lunch, he thought often of Quentin's hands in his, of the rough texture of the calluses on his palms, the bitten down nails and the torn cuticles that he’d seen. He longed for his next opportunity to be close to Quentin, to press against his shoulder and ease whatever ailed him. There was no denying that what he’d considered a mild lust was quickly blooming into something much more unpredictable.

"Did the thorn poison you? You're slowing us down," Margo said, jarring him from his thoughts. Her earlier agitation seemingly abated, she appeared relaxed in the afternoon heat; he was relieved to hear her gentle venom.

"Hardly," Eliot replied. He flexed his injured hand. "You patched me up nicely, didn’t you Quentin?" 

"Hope so," Quentin called from the end of row. "Not that y’all have ever been particularly quick in the first place." Margo looked down at Eliot where he worked in the low branches and smirked.

She said, "Remember that time you had to rescue me from Fort Whipple?"

Eliot shook his head and smiled as he dropped berries into their baskets. "I still don't know why you thought you could outdrink a bunch of lonely soldiers."

"They were Yankees, El. True, blue-blood New Englanders. You know those Puritan boys can’t hold their liquor _and_ that they always have a good piece of silver or two."

His knees and back whined as he stood and jostled against her shoulder. He tossed her a gentle glare; though she didn’t turn her head as she kept up her work, he saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth that meant she’d seen him. This conversation was familiar, comfortable. It was always Margo's peace offering. _I have been a fool, too._

"Well," she said airily. "Usually. Thankfully my knight in shining armor was there to save me once they’d caught my hand in the coffer." 

"You were useless for two whole days. I had half a mind to carry you across my horse like a damn deer. How much _did_ you drink?"

She shimmied up against him, grinning like a fox in a chicken coop. "Who can say."

Eliot wrapped one arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. He paid no mind to the way his hand stung when he curled it around her arm, nor to Quentin’s gaze, which lingered a little long from the end of the row.

They worked through the rest of the afternoon in relative peace, breaking for supper and early rest. Eliot barely made it through his meal, still exhausted from the night before and feeling even more wrung out from the day’s work. After, he found his way to Margo’s tent, where she pulled back her blankets and scooted to the side, leaving enough room for Eliot as long as they laid close.

"I’m sorry," Eliot whispered as he settled in beside her. Sometimes, when one or both of them felt lonely or particularly starved of affection, they would curl up together, fit as commas. It was an old habit that Eliot had deployed in apology on more than one occasion.

She sighed. "I know you are."

For a few minutes, they stayed quiet. She lay with her cradled on his shoulder, his arm tight around her ribs. Eliot let out long breaths as she raked her nails through the hair on his chest. 

"I'm only worried. That’s all I meant." Margo finally said.

"I know," Eliot said. He swallowed and steadied himself. "I’ve been thinking— they'll have more money after the apple crop. It might behoove us to stick around."

"But that— that’s three more months, El. Are we not already pushing our luck?"

"Haven't we always?"

She looked up at him, then, her brown eyes wide and unmistakably pleading. The rarity of such tenderness in her gaze was not lost on him. He pushed down the feeling that threatened his throat and did not think of other brown eyes that had looked up at him that day.

He continued, "I'm only saying. We're well-hidden here, and the work could be worse. If we hold on 'til autumn our reward will be worth all the trouble." He did not say that he enjoyed life on the orchard; he did not mention the comfort he found in the company.

She knew him too well, however. "Your head's all clouded with affection," she told him. Her voice had a growing edge to it that left little room for argument.

"I don't mind it here," he allowed. "But I'm still right."

"I suppose." He felt her throat move as she swallowed. "He’s sweet," she said quietly, but still with a slight lilt. It was teasing and gentle all at once, like the sour berries that so quickly gave way to sweetness. "I don’t blame you, only— don't do anything stupid."

Eliot pulled back to look down at her and grinned. "Bambi, are you going soft on me?"

"Never," she said, nuzzling at his shoulder and avoiding his best accusatory gaze. "You’re soft enough for the both of us." She tapped one finger against his chest, a constant rhythm to counterbalance his unsteady heart. He laid a brief kiss to her lips and drew her in closer, the scent of her hair— jasmine, a little dust, tobacco— all around him.

Thus settled, in their ire as well as their future, he held her close as they fell to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, people from the part of the country where this eliot is from unironically use 'daddy'.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> immense and endless thanks to portaitofemmy for talking me through so many frustrating things and propping me up, and to ibbywrites for the unparalleled confidence boost. this story wouldn't exist at this point without y'all.
> 
> thank you to every one of you who has commented and bookmarked and kudo'd thus far; it truly means the world to me. this chapter took longer than i'd hoped, but it's finally done. i wanted to write something that made me awfully, unabashedly happy and i hope that if you're reading this, you get a little bit of that feeling, too.

#### CHAPTER 3

* * *

By July, when the heat set in and the blackberries were all sold or turned to jam, Quentin had grown used to the presence of the two young strangers. They were not married, he learned, but rather considered each other a sort of sibling, though they were not blood relations. 

"Well, not siblings, exactly," Eliot explained as they gathered eggs on the first Sunday that month. "But we’ve been together so long I almost forget. She saved my life, you know."

Quentin chuckled as he stooped to reach beneath a red hen; by this time he was accustomed to Eliot’s theatrical inclinations. "That must have been quite a sight."

"Oh it was," Eliot agreed, holding out the basket. "We haven’t left each other’s side since."

This Quentin understood; west of the Mississippi, family meant a lot of things it didn’t back East. People disappeared; they were killed in raids or attacked by panthers and outlaws or else lost their way; orphans were left in the care of strangers, brought up in languages not their own. Out here, you learned to take good love where you could find it. The blood of the covenant, and all.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder if something else was between them. It was impossible not to, not with the way they touched or the casual comfort they shared, how they communicated so clearly with just the bat of an eye. Though Quentin knew something of such intimacy, having grown up alongside Julia and shared everything with her from ages 2 to 22, he also knew that even his romantic inclinations had once gotten the better of him. 

"You never," Quentin cleared his throat and felt his face heat up as he gathered the courage to ask, "you never thought of marriage?" He hoped his tone was casual.

Eliot shrugged. He took a long moment to answer and Quentin felt anxiety churn in his belly; suddenly he was terrified that he had offended him, somehow, that he would storm out of the coop and never come back. He told himself that it was a reasonable question; prospects were thin for men in this part of the country.

Eliot looked up as he placed two eggs in the basket Quentin held. He stayed silent for another moment, seeming to study Quentin’s face, as though he were searching for a tell in a backroom game. Quentin felt his cheeks burn even hotter under the weight of his observation.

Finally, Eliot said, "No. We’re not— it’s just not like that."

"Oh," Quentin said, a little dumb. "All right."

Eliot cleared his throat. "What about you? Surely you've got your sights on someone."

Quentin, not yet recovered, almost dropped the basket. "Oh God no," he laughed. "My last, um, foray into romance may have proved I'm not cut out for it."

"Oh?"

"Oh," Quentin affirmed. 

"Care to elaborate?"

Quentin shrugged and gently placed another egg in the basket. It had been some time since he’d thought of Alice, and even longer since he’d spoken of her. "I was engaged, actually. We were a poor match, all told. It’s fine," he said, because it was fine by then, the sharp pain he’d felt upon their separation dulled down to scar tissue, a knot he could barely feel under the surface of his heart even if he searched for it. 

"I’m sorry to hear it." Eliot’s tone, typically wrapped in the golden foil of his wit, seemed to soften, a sharp edge of brittle melting on a child’s tongue.

"Don’t be," Quentin sighed. He must sound maudlin, he realized, and quickly laughed to dispel the familiar mist that threatened to fall on his mood. He did not want to give Eliot the impression he still had feelings for her. To do so would not only be dishonest, but would cut off paths Quentin found himself increasingly curious of, uncharted ways beneath the bramble and along the creek. He turned a smile on Eliot. "It was last year and— it’s all right, really. We’re both better off."

"Oh I doubt she is," Eliot said with a companionable nudge of his elbow.

"Flatterer," Quentin accused.

"Will you fault me my nature?" Eliot said. 

"Of course not," said Quentin, and smiled. There was nothing he wanted to change about Eliot.

"Come on, Q," Eliot said, and Quentin almost started at the nickname. It wasn’t the first time Eliot had used it, but in his whole life no other person had called him by it but his father. He kicked one toe forward to tap at the heel of Eliot’s boot.

"What’s on the menu?" he asked as he followed him out of the coop.

"Eggs?" Eliot said, eyeing the basket.

"Yeah," Quentin laughed and knocked Eliot’s shoulder with his own. "But what sort will you prepare for us this morning, Chef Waugh? Omelettes?"

"Mm," Eliot agreed. "Or perhaps something less pastoral— Eggs Benedict, perhaps? Though my hollandaise is surely in need of practice," he said and smiled, throwing his arm around Quentin's shoulder to pull him close. For a fleeting moment, Quentin warmed at the touch. Eliot was as easy in affection with him as he seemed to be with Margo, and such comfort from others was not entirely familiar to him.

Even so, he found that he enjoyed Eliot’s ready touch, even sometimes longed for it. While his father had been an affectionate man, a habit not broken in Quentin's adulthood, it was a different thing altogether to receive such touches from Eliot. It felt— not brotherly, exactly— but if Quentin was not mistaken, flirtatious. It was not unlike the way he and Alice had once walked arm in arm through the orchard, finding excuses to brush a gloved finger against a naked wrist. Indeed, it was often brazen, Eliot's long fingers wrapped around his arm as they were now, as if he might never let go.

"I’ve never had it," Quentin said, not without hope. "And I do love your culinary adventures."

"Well, I never," Eliot said, gasping dramatically. Quentin leaned a little harder against him in response, smiling at more than his theatrics. "There is no choice but to remedy such an oversight." With that, he released Quentin from his hold and ushered him toward the house, his hand a gentle pressure at his back.

Later that afternoon, after the eggs were poached and smothered and eaten, Quentin allowed himself the additional luxury of reading. His father had retreated again to rest and Eliot and Margo were off on a stroll, and Quentin knew that would end in Eliot crouched in the garden, with Margo supervising, cigarette in hand and a quip on her tongue.

While his collection was not as diverse as he might have dreamt, he didn’t mind reading his favorite stories over and over and indeed, found immense comfort in them. And so, warmed by the late June air and the memory of Eliot’s touch, he selected the most familiar story, _The World in the Walls_. He settled into the rocking chair previously occupied by his father on warm nights such as these, and before too long was deeply absorbed in the story, familiar though it was.

This book for him held a particular sort of secret. Between its covers, there were feelings he could never express, thoughts he could never fully articulate. Throughout his life, he had been plagued by a sense of difference, that he would never truly belong. And in this book, in the loneliness of the children and their desire to escape, he had found himself reflected. That their desire was sated with the grandest of adventure only served to enrapture him further, as if he may one day find himself a hero, too. He often thought of himself as bound up in their story as good as pages, inextricable.

He was more than halfway through the book when Margo returned alone, wildflowers in hand.

"What’ve you got there?" she asked as she made her way up the porch steps. She stooped to place a sprig of lavender behind his ear and spied his book as she did. He almost thought to hide it from her, embarrassed to be caught reading a children’s book, but then she smiled and said, "How go the adventures of our dear Chatwins this afternoon?"

"You know Plover?" he asked, unable to contain his excitement. He had no time to be embarrassed before she grasped his shoulders.

"Oh of _course_ ," she said with glee. "His stories were so precious to me as a girl. The place I grew up, we had free run of the river banks, and I used to pretend I was setting sail to the Outer Islands. I’ll have you know I was a superb diplomat." She stood straight, tossing her head back to show the length of her neck and smiled. Quentin could not deny that she looked the part— her sharp chin, her high cheeks, the sweeping fabric of her dress— and he stood to bow, holding out his hand.

"Excellency," he said, "perhaps I might show you my most valued texts."

She accepted him, folding her hand over his palm and reciprocating with a deep curtsy. "Why, certainly, dear sir. It is my duty to comprehend the cultural ways and mores of the Fillorians. Do lead the way."

Something in his chest bloomed open, then, something he’d been holding back even as he passed each afternoon with Eliot in the field. As they sat on the floor in front of the lone bookcase, cross-legged like children, he realized that he and Margo were more alike than spirit than he initially perceived. He could not recall a time in his adult life when anyone had been so accepting of him. There had been Julia, of course, but as he grew older he increasingly sensed that her listening was more the result of gentle handling than genuine interest. Certainly Julia loved him, and certainly they had shared childhood interests, but it was not the same as the way Margo spoke to him now, effusive and bright and without restraint.

Quentin almost didn’t notice Eliot’s appearance, so wrapped up he was in the illustrations of his pristine novels and his own excitement at having someone _with_ talk to rather than _at_. 

"I see Margo has beguiled you," he said from the doorway. A bananda was around his neck, darker red at the edges with sweat. The knot sat just askew of the notch above his breastbone, which itself shone with the sweat of whatever horticultural endeavors Eliot had been up to.

"Indeed," Quentin agreed. He couldn’t hide the smile that burned at his cheeks, so thrilled he was to find someone who might understand his foundations, his bedrock in such a way. "We’ve been discussing the merits of a system wherein rulers must come from another world."

Margo continued, "You see, the kings and queens of Fillory must be of Earth, which on the surface appears fair in the logic of the story." She looked toward Quentin, his permission to continue the story. Eliot took a seat beside them, his chin balanced on his fist and a slight smile on his lips. Quentin turned such that his part of him touched a part of each of them; to his left, Margo, whose shin Quentin touched with his toe, and to his right, Eliot, whose knee knocked congenially against Quentin’s own.

"But truly, a system in which outsiders rule over a populace— the majority of which are not even human— is not representative. And even monarchs should nominally reflect something of their subjects, don’t you agree?" 

"Oh, I don’t know," Eliot sighed. "I think perhaps a king should have some distance," and here he tipped his head back and sighed in a way that Quentin imagined students must do in the salons at Cambridge, or at least in the gentleman’s clubs he had once ascribed to Eliot. It was the sort of sigh that implied Eliot knew much more than he could ever say or than Quentin could ever truly understand. "Perhaps he should be, what's the word, _aspirational_."

"Oh hush, you, you never even read these books," Margo said. "If you did, you'd know that anyone could be High King, not just the likes of you."

Eliot tossed her a grin. "Bambi, how could you give me away like this? You wound me. I thought we were a team."

Quentin watched for a moment as they regarded each other. There was an undeniable affection between them, that much he knew. But watching them watch each other reminded Quentin of illustrations he’d seen of Greek gods in the clouds, sharing secrets as easily as fruit. Whatever their intimacy was, it wasn’t romance, he could see that now. Their closeness came instead from a profound understanding of one another, of shared history and taste, a field upon which they had grown and raised their own language of sighs and touches.

He was grateful to be allowed among them, mere mortal though he felt.

"So these books," Eliot asked as he leaned toward Quentin, "they were your favorite as a child?"

"They were _both_ our favorites," Margo corrected. "And still are." Quentin smiled as she nodded toward him.

Eliot looked toward him, drawing one knee underneath his chin. He looked at Quentin expectantly as he asked, "What’s so special about them?"

"These books, they," Quentin swallowed. He had not shared this with anyone in many years, not even Alice. He felt as though his entire self sat bare in his hands and that he might show it to Eliot, if only he could find the bravery to do so. He swallowed again and pushed his hair behind his ears, and met Eliot’s eyes. "They have been a great comfort to me over the years. It can be lonely out here and they— they made it. Less so."

Eliot nodded, his expression serious. The curve of his brow and steady line of his mouth conveyed a tenderness that Quentin would not have expected from the man he met at Diaz’s a month previous. His face was as open as his eyes, like the moon, Quentin thought, bright and obvious and yet so often hidden. There had been something rakish to his appearance at the saloon that had made Quentin doubt his capacity for genuine feeling— something he now understood to be entirely false. He knew this through the neat rows of basil and cilantro that now populated the garden and the flavorful meals that now graced their table; through the rows of jam and braided garlic that sat shelved in the cellar, and through the way he reached for Quentin, to lend a steadying hand or a warm embrace. It was all of it a tell of the soft, warm things Quentin suspected that Eliot thought he kept well-hidden underneath the layers of carefully cultivated wit and humor.

"I’m glad you found such solace," Eliot said. Quentin had the sense that his words were careful, as if Eliot were laying them out brick by brick. "Truthfully I’ve never been one for reading, but I do love stories. Would you two care to read to me?"

They spent the afternoon like this: the three of them side by side on Quentin’s bed, their shoulders tucked against one another as neatly as the books on the nearby shelves. Margo and Quentin passed the book back and forth across Eliot, alternating after a few pages. When Eliot shimmied down to lay his head on Margo’s shoulder, Quentin felt an unexpected pang of— not jealousy, not that precise and cruel feeling, but a desire, certainly. He longed for Eliot to lean against _him_ , to be that pillar of support. The desire was also physical; he wanted Eliot’s weight and warmth, to feel the comfort of him, to be held.

When he passed the book to Margo for the final time, he felt as if he stood in front of a door that was slightly ajar. He could choose to leave it alone, to keep walking and not look to see what lay on the other side. And yet he could also nudge it open and in doing so, test a boundary and a hypothesis in one fell swoop.

Quentin had always been curious, to his advantage and his detriment. So when Margo took the book from him, he yawned and curled in against Eliot’s side, tucking his face against his shoulder. For a moment, Eliot did not react, and Quentin did not look up to try and read his expression. He did not think to worry that Eliot might move away, that he might decide that Quentin was not worth being near; it did not occur to him that such intimacy was not typical between two men.

Then Eliot shifted to wrap his arm around Quentin’s shoulder, and Quentin sighed, taking it as permission to cuddle in closer. He listened to the steady beat of Eliot’s heart and the precise sounds of Margo’s diction. Eliot smelled like sweat and tobacco, the combination of which mixed with whatever it was that made Eliot _Eliot_. He surrounded Quentin without effort, making room for him near his body in the same way that he and Margo had made room for Quentin in their lives.

It was as if Eliot had understood that he walked into Quentin’s life at exactly the right moment— when hope was a small, fragile thing that he might tend to in the way that Quentin had tended to the blackberry brambles over the last two years. It was such a particular thing. Quentin knew that he was often difficult to deal with, that he was often too much for the people around him. He understood that his excitement overwhelmed his friends, had overwhelmed Alice in the way that his sadness had, too. But Eliot— Eliot asked him questions, did not judge him for his answers. Eliot touched him without compunction, offering his affection as readily as he offered it to Margo. In some ways, he felt as tenderly handled by Eliot as the fruit that they picked.

To have such closeness mirrored in physical ways as it was just then brought Quentin a profound sense of peace. His breathing slowed as Eliot pulled him even more tightly against his side, as if to demonstrate the proper way to lay beside a friend, until Quentin's entire perception was reduced to the places where they touched. Eliot trailed his fingers lightly along Quentin’s arm, a deeply soothing rhythm, and it was not until Eliot whispered that he had to get up, it was almost time for supper, that Quentin realized he had fallen asleep at all.

The days began to stretch into more languorous shapes after that. There were still chores, of course, still washing to do and animals to feed and trees that did require an occasional look, but all told July was a month of leisure before August brought the State Fair and September the rigors of harvest. As such, July was often a contentious month for Quentin. Though his work was often exhausting and tedious, such business usually stayed his mind from melancholy, and the lack of tasks to complete gave him too many opportunities to contemplate his variety of inadequacies. That his birthday fell on the 20th did not help matters, as he spent the month growing increasingly listless only to find himself a year older by its end, with little, historically speaking, to show for it.

The same would not be said for July of 1894, least of all the morning of the seventeenth. Quentin began the day with little determination and found it rapidly fading as he went about his chores. That day, the sun beat down with interminable force, quickly warming the cool morning air into an unpleasant humidity. The heat made him slow and bumbling, his hands heavy and his vision unfocused.

By the time he found himself in the shade of the stable, sweat dripped from his temples and stung his eyes when he blinked. He wiped at his face carelessly with his sleeve as he gathered his materials, hoping that focusing on something small and simple would ease his ire. But he brushed Janie’s mane roughly, tugging the bristles through the coarse hair, and found instead that it only showed up his irritation. His slow hands found it difficult to braid her tail, and each stroke of the brush only exasperated him more until he finally realized that he would have to redo the entire thing, as her ends were too caught together to pull into proper strands any longer.

"It’s not even worth milking the damn cow," Eliot announced as he approached. "By the time I get it back to the house it will have just about curdled."

Quentin frowned and ran the brush over Janie’s tail without looking up. "If you say so," he said, an accidental note of irritation slipping through like a leak in a dam. He did not want Eliot to see him so angry over nothing. Eliot was the sort of person that made one grateful to have his confidence, carrying himself in a way that suggested he held secrets no one else did and that he'd share them with you, if only you proved yourself. Indeed, since Eliot’s arrival, Quentin found himself striving toward just that. Now he used the washboard instead of simply soaking his shirts; he took to shaving with more regularity and made sure that his hair was as neatly trimmed as he could keep it. By all accounts, and privately, by his own admission, Quentin strove toward making himself the perfect gentleman to best mirror Eliot’s manners, that he might deserve his attention. To display such a temper now simply would not do.

So caught was he in managing his comportment that he did not notice as Eliot stepped behind him; he started when Eliot held his hand out over his shoulder.

"Give me that thing, her plait’s a mess," he said. His tone was gentle, and Quentin could not decide if he ought to be touched by Eliot’s concern or annoyed at his condescension. When he didn’t move, Eliot reached down and plucked it from his hand.

Quentin turned around and made to snatch it back, but Eliot held it above his head. Quentin frowned up at him, a deep and genuine expression that he knew made him look like a contemplative bullfrog, but that he could not control.

"What’s got you so cranky?" Eliot asked, voice still a little soft even as he held the brush out of reach, like one might tease a child.

Quentin wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "It’s so _goddamn_ hot," he finally admitted, as if that were sufficient explanation. He could see where sweat threatened to soak through the space beneath Eliot’s collar and thought that he could not be much more comfortable himself, no matter the air of calm sophistication he maintained. 

Eliot sighed, shaking his head as he set the brush down on a nearby rail. For a moment, he only looked at Quentin, seeming to assess whether whatever he had in mind would be worth the time and effort it might take him. But then he took Quentin by the shoulders. "I have an idea," he said, "c’mon." And before Quentin could argue or pull away, Eliot’s hand had slid down to take Quentin’s, to guide them back to the house.

They found Margo and Ted sitting on the porch, Margo alternately fanning her face before reaching over to fan Ted.

"Mr. Coldwater," Eliot called. Quentin’s hand was still tight in his and Quentin could feel each place where their knuckles pressed against one another. "Can we steal Margo from you for a while?"

Ted raised an eyebrow. "Of course," he said. His eyes darted to Quentin as if he could possibly be a part of whatever scheme Eliot was cooking up. "Though I hardly think she needs my permission."

Margo cocked an eyebrow as they approached, and it seemed to raise even further when Eliot tugged at her sleeve. "Let’s away, Bambi," he said, and took her hand.

"You wanna tell me what’s going on?"

"The heat has put our dear Quentin out of sorts," he said. Quentin squinted at him and frowned, but his expression curved up into laughter before he could think about it. Eliot had that effect— the ability to take any mood of Quentin’s and invert it into something gentler, something soft. Eliot squeezed his hand where he held it, and Quentin squeezed back.

"So what’s your plan for sorting me out?" Quentin asked. Eliot cast him a look that could only be described as devious.

"C’mon," Eliot said, and took off at a leisurely run toward the creek. Quentin and Margo’s pace could not be described as quite so leisurely, the difference in their strides forcing them almost to a sprint. As they ran, over knolls and past the garden, the breeze began to cool Quentin’s skin. His heart raced with exertion but also with the thrill of it— the thrill of being led along by Eliot, side by side with Margo, like the three of them had always been the dearest of friends. The sun no longer seemed to beat down like a predator awaiting prey’s collapse, instead having transformed into something illuminating and bright, the kind of light to which the three of them were entitled, young and careless as they were, as they deserved to be.

When at last they reached the creek, Eliot came to a stop and looked only at Margo. Without a word, he began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Q, come unhook me," Margo said with a grin. Absurdly, Quentin felt he should look to Eliot for some sort of permission before he caught himself; certainly Margo had never needed permission from anyone in her life, even Eliot. 

Carefully, he pulled at the back of her skirt to undo the clasp, then helped her out of her shirt. He averted his eyes as she stripped each subsequent layer, accepting the articles of clothing blindly and hanging them over a nearby branch. This continued until she slapped his hand away and he looked up to find her down to her chemise and drawers, the fine lace at the straps and hems fluttering in the breeze. She smiled at him and he felt a flush creep over his chest, red and burning almost as hot as the sun they’d escaped.

Quentin looked at last to Eliot, also stripped to his drawers, his clothes neatly folded on a rock beside him. He watched as he and Margo exchanged glances, smiles, and nods, a secret and yet imminently obvious language that made a wobbly giggle work its way from Quentin’s lips.

"Oh no— no, no no— " he laughed, as embarrassed as he was anxious as he was delighted. "Absolutely not."

"Quentin," Eliot sighed as he unfastened his drawers, "don’t be a spoilsport."

"We’ll have to throw you in fully dressed," Margo said, pulling at the hem of her chemise. Quentin cast his eyes toward Eliot but not before he saw the swell of her breast as she tugged it up and over her head.

"And certainly you don’t want to walk all the way back to the house sopping wet." As he spoke, he pushed his drawers down and folded them to sit alongside the rest of his clothes. His face burning, Quentin kept his eyes on Eliot’s face, even as Eliot looked him up and down, from his toes to his middle, where his eyes seemed to linger, before resting on his face. Quentin shifted from foot to foot under his observation, unsure what to make of it. Yet, despite their teasing, Eliot’s expression was unmistakably kind, his smile genuine and his eyes wide and true. Quentin held his gaze, squinting against the dare until Eliot broke into a wide smile that belied his delicate mouth.

"No," Quentin agreed at last, "I certainly don’t." With that, he quickly divested himself of his trousers and shirt and hung them beside Margo’s trappings. He took a deep breath and reached for the fastenings below his belly button, and with one last burst of will he pushed them down.

He did not expect the riot of wolf whistles and howls that burst out of Eliot and Margo. Despite himself, he smiled and did his best to resist the urge to cover himself up, even as his face and chest and even, he swore, his ankles burned.

"Who’d have thought we had a regular Adonis on our hands?" Margo laughed, not unkindly. When Quentin looked to her, he saw that her arms were crossed over her breasts, though whether out of modesty or a practical need he didn’t know.

Eliot, however, stood proudly with one hand on his hip, leaving little to modesty and even less to the imagination. In his wildest dreams, Quentin never pictured that he'd be on the banks of the creek where he’d run wild with Julia, pretending to be kings and queens and knights and mages, standing naked as the day he was born in front of two of the most beautiful people he’d ever encountered. And they _were_ beautiful— Margo with her hair loose now around her shoulders, a darker sort of chestnut over her warm skin; Eliot with his dark curls, shorter now than when they’d first met but still falling elegantly over his brow. And then there were all the things he had never dared to imagine: the curve of Margo’s waist, the jut of Eliot’s hip bones; the hair over their legs, Margo’s finer but dark and visible as Eliot’s, leading up to their vees of their legs at which point Quentin could not continue looking without considerable embarrassment. 

Perhaps, he thought, there was more magic to this place than he had ever credited it.

"It’s deeper that way," Quentin said, pointing toward the eastern stretches of the creek. Eliot smiled as he reached out to take Quentin’s hand again. Without thinking, Quentin extended his left for Margo’s, until they were all joined together as they’d been. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Quentin knew that he should be embarrassed, of himself, on behalf of them all. But in that moment he could only feel the unrepentant joy of being hand in hand with his friends, these two people who he was steadily growing to love.

He led them to the edge of the creek, where the rocks gave way to less steady mud cut deep by the water, which did not move in a way that could be described as rushing but which did gently gallop down the small valley it cut.

"Ready?" Quentin asked once they were a few feet from the edge.

"Never more," Eliot said. Quentin chanced a last glance at him, to watch the breeze tousle his hair and the smile spread over his face. "Margo?"

"Let’s go," she said.

Quentin swung his arms as he began the count— "One," swing again, "two," and then he stepped forward before letting loose a gleeful, _Three!_ and jumped headlong into the water to the sound of Margo’s delighted shrieks and Eliot’s undignified yelp.

The water was colder than Quentin remembered, shocking and crisp even here in the miserable heat. It knocked the air clean out of his lungs and he came to the surface gasping, smiling, and gasping again as Margo and Eliot emerged beside him.

"Shit, shit, shit— _fuck!_ " Eliot cried.

"This was your idea," Margo shouted as she made her way to shallow water.

Quentin met Eliot’s gaze as he paddled to a place he could stand. Eliot seemed to contemplate something, and Quentin had half a mind to fear it. Eliot had clearly woken up in an unusually impish mood, even by his Roman standards.

Then Eliot reared back and moved his arm through the water like an oar, generating an enormous wave that threatened to drown Quentin all over again. Margo splashed back, ever Quentin's defender, and it was only a short moment before he was able to regain enough of his bearings to push his palms through the water and send a pulse of a wave toward a sopping Eliot.

"If I get on your shoulders we can take him," Margo stage-whispered as she crept up behind him.

"C’mon," Quentin said, sinking into the water and hoisting her up without a thought. Her thighs were slick and wet around his neck and ears and he could barely get back to his full height, where the water would still come up past his waist, but whether his weakness was a result of Margo's weight or of the feeling of her skin he could not say.

"What’s this? An insurrection?" Eliot gasped. He flung himself onto his back in the water and with two enormous strokes had put several more feet between them. But Quentin was undeterred.

Like this, he was eye-level with Eliot’s chest, even lower than usual from the weight of Margo on top of him. He shifted from foot to foot, adjusting to the new appendage he’d acquired on his shoulders, for as small as Margo was, the water was not deep enough buoy her. It did not bode well for their impending bout, but Quentin forged ahead, taking two, then three firm steps toward Eliot, who stood straight with his arms crossed in playful examination of the chimera before him.

"Onward," Margo cried, her hands outstretched.

Laughing, yelling, Quentin took the remaining steps toward him, quickening his pace as he progressed. It was only a few paces before he found himself colliding with Eliot as Margo roared and grabbed for Eliot's shoulders.

His face pressed hard against Eliot’s sternum as Eliot reached for Margo, shoving his hands under her armpits to bodily lift her off Quentin’s shoulders. They both fought against him, Margo by squeezing her thighs so tightly around Quentin’s ears that they rang, and Quentin by digging his fingers into the flesh of her legs. It wasn’t enough; Eliot had better footing, having only the one person’s weight to support, and it took only the slightest slip of Quentin’s toes against the mossy rocks for Margo to topple into Eliot, bringing Quentin with them and then they were a tangle of limbs and splashing and laughter and even though for a moment Quentin couldn’t find the surface, when at last he found it it was in Eliot’s arms.

"Q," Eliot laughed as he tugged him to his feet. "You all right?" 

"Fine," Quentin said, spitting out a mouthful of water and smiling up at Eliot. "I’m fine."

He almost didn’t notice as Eliot’s hand curled over his waist but how could he— how could he _not_ notice the broad span of Eliot’s fingers against his skin, even beneath the water, and how could he not notice the way that Eliot tugged him close, so that their chests touched and if Quentin was not mistaken, how Eliot’s cock rubbed against his belly, only half hard but obviously not disinterested and— if Quentin _was not mistaken_ , blood-hot where it pressed against him in the cold water of the creek.

"Eliot," Quentin squeaked out, a warning, a plea.

"Yeah?" Eliot half-whispered as he snuck his other hand behind Quentin’s thigh.

"What are you— " and then Quentin was in the air and crashing back into the water. It was only when he thought to close his mouth that he realized that Eliot had lifted and tossed him back like catch deemed too small and his back fell against the water with a slap and he barely had time to suck in a breath before he was scrabbling to find his feet beneath the surface. 

"You’re terrible," Quentin growled when he stood again.

"You two ganged up on me," Eliot said, arms crossed. Even like this, chest-deep in the greenblue water with his hair hanging in wet tendrils over his face, he was impossibly beautiful, regal. Quentin could not help the smile that threatened to break through.

He splashed Eliot once more. "Truce?"

Eliot, less elegantly this time, flopped into the water to float on his back. "Truce," he agreed. "Margo?"

"Fine! Truce," she called from the bank where she sat wringing the water from her hair.

Quentin sighed, flicking one last jet of water toward Eliot, who looked at him from the corner of his eye and smiled. He kicked his feet to paddle a little distance away, looking again toward Quentin as if in invitation. Quentin shrugged and followed Eliot’s lead, kicking backward to float beside him.

For a long time after that, they lay floating in the cool water, silent, side by side while Margo sunned on the banks. The sun shone like stars through the blanket of the verdant canopy above, twinkling above them, and Quentin closed his eyes to see them turn to red spots. He tried to memorize the feeling of this moment— the water lapping at his skin, the heat of the sun, the simple joy of being. It felt important to catalogue every sensation; despite his relative youth, he thought it unlikely that he would ever feel such contentment again.

Eliot’s fingertips grazed his own, warm in the cool water. Without opening his eyes, Quentin smiled, stretching toward him and extending the touch. It set his heart racing when Eliot hooked his pinky finger around Quentin's, joining them in the most delicate fashion. 

If it killed him to be touched this way, he thought, he would take it.

* * *

Quentin's birthday followed a few days after that afternoon at the creek. It was not a day he regularly celebrated, but he allowed himself a lie in, figuring the chickens could wait an hour or two and the trees would not shrivel in the meantime. It had been months since he'd seen his bedroom go from the murky blue of dawn to the bright white of the morning and his bedding, freshly laundered the previous day, was soft against his skin, and the new day was still cool from the night.

What were birthdays for if not indulgence?

He trailed his own hands over his chest and belly, reaching lower. He could not remember the last time he’d been relaxed enough for this, let alone had the time. But here, now, on the morning of his twenty-seventh birthday, he felt comfortable, even at peace. So he let his hands wander over his skin until they drifted down, and down, and he did not fight the images that ran across the insides of his eyelids like shadow puppets. He thought of large palms, dark eyelashes, of the shape of long muscles moving to pick blackberries and knead bread. Quentin laughed breathlessly at himself, then, less than surprised when his mind filled in the remaining blanks with dark curls and pink, gently bowed lips. Even as embarrassment mixed with arousal to send heat up his chest, he didn't let it overtake him.

Somehow, he didn't think Eliot would mind being thought of this way.

Indulgent though these images were, the true indulgence was imagining how Eliot must feel. As he stroked himself, he gasped at the thought of those long fingers curling over his hips, at the ghost of Eliot’s lips across his shoulders, his ribs, his cock. He bucked up into his hand and caught the bend of his knee in the other, as though to expose himself, to offer himself up to the specter of Eliot, who at present nipped at his ear and breathed warm against his neck as he moved. Quentin could almost feel the weight of him, bearing him down into the mattress; he could almost perfectly imagine the way Eliot would hold him close, as affectionate in lovemaking as he was in the day-to-day.

When it came, his orgasm caught him almost by surprise, and he shuddered, gasping as he worked himself through it. He could almost hear Eliot's voice in his ear, the way he might coax him over the edge and back down, and the way he might hold him after, how he might bring Quentin's head to rest on his shoulder. Half-blind, Quentin nuzzled into his pillow, imagining that the scent of soap was that of Eliot's clean skin rather than his own fresh linens. 

When at last Quentin dressed and emerged from the cabin, he found that he was alone. He looked over the fields, shading his face with his hands where his hat was not enough. He couldn’t see the figure of his father stretching toward the boughs, nor the distant show of Eliot crouching in the garden. Assuming that they must be further afield, he took the path toward the orchard, his steps quick but unhurried in the easy pace of youth.

He found Margo alone in the orchard. Her duties with his father reduced, at least for now, she had taken to learning the apple trees with equal diligence, and it did not surprise Quentin to see her on her toes inspecting the ends of new growth.

"Where is everyone?" Quentin asked. 

"Gone to town," Margo said as she turned toward him, smiling. "We’re to meet them there at Diaz’s by four o’clock."

"But it’s Sunday," Quentin said with a tilt of his head. "Won’t she be closed?"

"Only to the public," Margo said, sly. "You didn't think we'd forget your birthday, did you?"

Quentin's cheeks hurt with the effort of restraining his smile. "I didn’t know y’all knew."

"As if your father would let such an occasion go unmarked," she said. She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek and this time, her smile was mischievous. "But you have to act surprised," she said conspiratorially, her hands firm on his shoulders and her face drawn into a serious expression.

"How did you know I hate surprises?"

"Because I’ve seen what happens when Eliot sneaks up on you in the orchard," she said. "And I thought I’d spare you the indignity of ending up halfway up a tree."

Quentin blushed to think that Margo had noticed anything about the way he’d reacted to Eliot. Truly, he’d been lost in a day dream that time, as he'd trimmed the lowest growth. How was he to hear Eliot’s quiet footsteps in the soft ground of the orchard?

"Now c’mon, get your boots on. We’ve got a ride ahead of us."

Margo took one of the mules while Quentin saddled up Janie. The ride there was pleasant, the air around them fresh and warm but not miserably so as it had been the day at the creek. Their conversation, when it came, flowed easily, and the silences in between were comfortable enough. All told, Quentin could not complain about the present shape of his birthday, the first in many years for which he was excited to celebrate his life.

They arrived before the sanctioned time. Margo had Quentin wait outside while she convinced the remainder of their party that he was truly not apprised of their scheme. He stood next to Janie, petting her flank as he tried to soothe the increasing speed of his anxious heart.

Margo returned and took him by the hand. Toward the saloon, she called, "Now Quentin, it's just this way," projecting her performer's voice loudly enough for those lying in wait, and Quentin squeezed her fingers to keep from laughing.

When they entered, Margo took her place beside his father, Kady, and Eliot where they stood in the center of the room, crowded around a large round table mismatched but beautifully lain with linens and pottery and silver. The late afternoon daylight streamed in through the open windows and cast them all in bright relief, and even Ted's stooped profile cut a sentimental figure in such warm light. Kady and Margo were as lovely as always, fierce and beautiful and smiling with a warmth that belied their sharp edges.

And then, to the far side, Eliot. It had been weeks since Quentin had seen him before supper in anything but his shirtsleeves and cotton trousers. But here— the way he looked in the middle of the day with his sleeves rolled up and his waistcoat settled flat against his chest, cinched firmly across his waist— it was all— he ought to look out of place, as if Eliot should have been in Denver or some other cosmopolitan place. And yet he fit right in at Diaz’s, among the velvet and leather and polished wood, in a way he had not when Quentin first met him. He realized then that Eliot now seemed at ease, as if he at last deigned to accept the place he had been offered in the Coldwaters' lives.

"Oh," Quentin said, thinking to feign surprise but feeling unsteady nevertheless. "What's this about?"

"Happy birthday, you horrible liar," Kady laughed. She threw her arms around him and drew him toward the table. "I'm starving, can we save the sentimentality for after supper?"

"Motion seconded," Ted said.

Eliot pulled out a chair for Quentin and leaned over his shoulder to whisper, "As if they haven't been picking at my cooking all damn day."

Quentin smiled and leaned into the warmth of Eliot's breath; Eliot squeezed his shoulder once before finding his own seat.

They ate a fine supper at the large round table in the center of the saloon, their seats a mismatch of armchairs and stools while the fading sun, and later, oil lamps, lit a burning yellow glow all around them. Quentin marveled at the spread— elk roasted on the grill Kady maintained out back, served with a sumptuous wine sauce alongside potatoes laden with cream and butter. There was a tomato and cucumber salad, which must be Eliot's doing and meant that he must have carried the fruit, somehow, all the way from the farm.

"Eliot, you shouldn’t have," Quentin said once he has cleared his plate, too amazed to be subtle. Accustomed as he was to Eliot’s cooking, it was clear that the effort he must have put forth for this meal was far greater than that of his usual fare. For dessert, there was even a cherry pie, the lattice work that covered the top tightly knit and crowned with a wreath of pastry leaves. Sugar had bubbled over in the center and the dark caramelization was undeniably tempting.

"Well, I must admit it wasn’t _all_ me. Kady made the pie crust," Eliot proclaimed. He poured himself a glass of claret and raised it toward her. She shook her head and raised her hands, as if she were caught out in some minor crime.

"She didn't," Quentin gasped.

"Oh but she did," Eliot said.

Kady glared at Eliot but was unable to hide her smile. "I’m a woman of many talents," she conceded. 

"Shall we cut into it?" Quentin asked.

"Before we sing?" Ted said.

"Absolutely not," Margo cut in, and inhaled deeply to set them off on an only slightly off-key tune. Quentin blushed at the attention, warmed equally by the wine and the company. He could not help but recall the day so long ago now when he had stumbled upon Eliot in the orchard, how beautiful his voice had been even as he stooped low in the bramble. 

And here, in the soft glow of the candle and lantern light, Eliot looked as luminous as ever. His tie lay loose on his breast, framing the delicate notch revealed by his unbuttoned shirt so artfully that Quentin wondered if it was intentional. The golden light warmed his skin and cast such shadows about his brow that he looked almost magical, as if he would be equally at home on the throne of a fantastic kingdom as he did here, in a leather armchair in a two-bit saloon. Something churned deep in Quentin's belly as he imagined Eliot on a high throne, and he could not help but imagine kneeling at Eliot's feet. 

"Quentin, you'll have the first slice, won't you?" Margo said. Her voice broke him from his reverie and he blushed as he accepted, hoping Margo didn't notice the red of his cheeks but knowing full well that she did.

He took his first bite and moaned before he could think better. "Eliot," he said, " _Kady_. This is outstanding, I've never," and he couldn't finish his sentence before he scooped up another bite.

Kady was almost doubled over her own plate in a fit of laughter. "It's only pie, Quentin."

He wiped his mouth and shook with his own laughter. "Well, it's damn good."

Once they were full to the brim of fruit and pastry, they retired to the armchairs near the front window, Kady’s finest crystal in each of their hands and a bottle of liquor under her arm. Quentin settled into the largest of the chairs, next to the window. As he found his comfort, Eliot approached with his hands behind his back. Quentin's heart leapt at the thought that Eliot would sit next to him, that they might pass the evening in such proximity.

But Eliot stopped just short of sitting and extended his hand, in which he held a brown paper wrapped package, small and rectangular and neatly folded at the corners.

"Happy birthday," Eliot said. "I thought— you'd mentioned— I hope it's not too presumptuous," he finished at last.

"No," Quentin said. His throat felt tight as he accepted the parcel. "Thank you, Eliot."

Gingerly, he broke the seal of the wrapping, careful not to rip it, not to seem careless. Beneath the wrapping was a deep blue leather cover, embossed with gold text.

"You’re always wishing for more books," Eliot said. His expression was unlike anything Quentin had yet seen from him. Indeed, he seemed almost nervous, the corners of his mouth drawn tight and his tongue visible between his teeth.

"The Happy Prince?" Quentin asked. The embossing was deep and the gold leaf fine, the leather pebbled beneath his fingertips.

"Wilde’s fairy tales," Eliot said. "They're," he cleared his throat, "they were published a few years ago and they're children's stories. But, frankly I adore them and I thought, well, that you might enjoy them. Given your predilection for the fantastical." He shifted on his feet and clicked one heel as he straightened.

Quentin opened the cover to the flyleaf. In scrawling black ink, rather small but for the capital letters, was an inscription:

_For Q, and the summer of 1894._

_With affection,  
Your Selfish Giant_

This book, with its fine leather and thin paper— Quentin could not help but feel as though it was a piece of Eliot himself. Everything beautiful and gilded, from the cover to the edge of each page. And yet within it were the tenderest of stories, the sentimental softness beneath layers of careful craftsmanship. 

It was so rare to be thought of.

He looked up from the book and met Eliot's eyes. Despite the nervousness of his tone, his eyes shone in the lamplight. When Quentin smiled up at him, at last his face relaxed, and that broad, generous smile graced his features.

"Thank you, El. You'll have to read to me sometime," he said. His skin tingled with the memory of their closeness that day they'd all read together. He could not but hope.

"We'll see," Eliot said, flippant, as he settled in the chair beside him. Even so, his eyes never left Quentin, and his smile did not fade. His attention was such a precious thing, warm and buoyant, and Quentin almost feared he'd float away in it. That Eliot had chosen to sit so close felt like another gift entirely, and Quentin’s mind wandered as he imagined wiling away the night next to Eliot in the low lamplight, so close he could touch, if only he were to reach out. Perhaps they might lean against one another, or Eliot may lay his feet in Quentin’s lap or, if he were lucky, Quentin could stretch out and let his hand come to rest near Eliot’s, and they would touch as they had in the creek.

At last he tore his eyes away to accept his glass.

"So Margo," Kady said as she passed the rest of them their whiskeys, "how'd y’all end up in Florence?"

"Well, we’re making our way to San Francisco," she said, accepting her drink with a smile toward Eliot. "Nothing but potential out that way, we hear."

"And what’s so special about _this_ place that y’all thought to stop?" Kady said. She pushed her curls back and they quickly fell down to frame her face, a gesture that Quentin had always found artfully flirtatious. He wasn’t sure she noticed that it always seemed to coincide with a flush on her cheeks.

"Kind folks," Eliot said, reclining with his long legs outstretched. "Truthfully, it was just the next stop on the train and we needed work, and we were lucky enough to find it."

"Nothing to do with the gold up in Victor?" Ted asked, grinning. 

"Oh, well now, I heard they’ve about stripped the mines up there," Eliot said. He cast a humble smile back toward Ted. "Unless they’ve discovered another vein, I doubt there’s much potential for us."

Quentin shook his head. "Not that I know. Those boys must surely be desperate for work, between the strike and the rush dying down. It can’t have been an easy summer for ‘em."

“There always seems to be another rush on the horizon," Eliot said placatingly, as if Quentin’s fate were tied to the whims of the earth beneath their feet. "I’m sure they’ll be all right."

"You think so?" Ted said.

"Of course," Eliot said and winked, that horribly treacherous gesture that made Quentin’s heart leap. 

"Well, I for one am at a _party_ and am not particularly interested in discussing the minutiae of mining," Margo sighed. 

"Oh, Bambi, you’re absolutely right. What tales of debauchery might we share with the unwashed masses tonight? Perhaps the time you convinced the residents of Santa Rosa that you were headed to the nunnery, lest you become the sheriff’s wife?" Eliot tipped his glass toward Margo in salute, sending her into a fit of giggles as she began her sordid tale.

With the windows open, the saloon was cool and breezy. They sat around drinking late into the night, regaling one another with the stories that each of them could muster. For Kady, it was an early experimentation with plum brandy, which found her hiding beneath the porch and laughing until she cried as her mother searched the house fruitlessly. Quentin recalled his early exploits with Julia, the times they had set loose the goats into the orchard and later, sent a neighbor’s cattle into a righteous stampede.

Even his father managed to make it until almost ten o'clock, retiring only when he insisted he could take no more of the young’uns’ exploits.

"You'll take my room, won't you Ted?" Kady said with earnest sweetness.

"Oh I couldn't do that," Ted insisted, even as an interminable number of joints cracked while he stretched. Quentin’s chest pulled tight at the thought of his father in such pain.

"Pa," he pleaded, "it won't do to have you on the floor."

"We'll bed down all right out here," Kady said, "don't worry about us."

After only a minute’s deliberation, Ted acquiesced, and Quentin stood to kiss his father’s cheek. "Y’all have a nice night," Ted said. "Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do." He clapped Quentin on the shoulder and winked, sending a furious flush up Quentin’s cheeks.

"Sure, Pa," he said, and helped his father up the stairs and into bed before returning to the laughing fray of his friends.

It was past midnight when Quentin found himself on the floor, his back against the chair which he had previously occupied. All four of them, in fact, had sunk at some point to the ground, inebriated and laughing.

"So before the war, the army thought it would be clever to use camels out in the desert, you know, like they do in the Far East," Eliot said with a grin.

"But they didn’t count on a war messin’ up their plans, so after emancipation you had camels just—"

"Wandering around Texas and New Mexico." 

"Exactly. So Margo and me, we convinced this rancher that there were still camels out in hills, and that we could corral them for the very low price of three dollars a head," Eliot laughed. "Payment was required up front, naturally."

"You scam people often?" Kady said, grinning.

"Of course not," Eliot said as he knocked back his drink. "It was only a joke. We didn’t make more than thirty dollars off the man, and we didn’t think he’d actually fall for it." He looked toward Quentin and smiled apologetically.

"Fair enough, I suppose." Quentin said. He did not know much about Eliot’s past, but certainly he could be forgiven a poor choice here and there. Besides, he reckoned, any man who would fall for something as ridiculous as a lost camel herd at least half-deserved to be taken.

Later, Quentin would not remember what time they fell asleep, nestled in pallets on the floor. He would not remember the color of his quilts or if he lay beside Margo and Kady. But he would remember the way Eliot looked at him then, assessing, almost melancholy in his expression.

He would recall that he had been mistaken, surely, that Eliot's hand had not come to rest on his thigh in what could only be a gesture of contrition, but which lingered, warm and solid, for much of the night. And though he would attribute it to his drunken state, he would not forget the way his body ached to be close to Eliot, the intensity of his longing only worse when he lay down beside Quentin to sleep.

The next morning, mouth dry and belly aching, Quentin scarfed down buttered toast as Eliot smoked beside him. They were none of them in the best of shape and barely spoke as they readied to leave, but Quentin could hardly regret it. He had never felt more loved than he did the previous night, nor than he did that morning as he saddled up the horses and helped his father and his friends— his _family_ , he thought with a fond tightness in his chest— as he helped them load up the wagon.

He kissed Kady goodbye and she squeezed him hard around the shoulders.

"I hope we lived up to expectations," Kady said as they parted.

Quentin laughed. "Of course," he said, giving her hand one last squeeze. " _Thank you_."

"You deserve it," she said simply. "It’s good to see you so well, truly. I still can’t believe it’s because of these two miscreants, but I am so glad for you, Quentin."

"I heard that," Margo called from her place on the wagon.

Kady smiled up at her, bright and white and wide. Quentin looked between them and his heart swelled: at the affection they seemed to share, at the luck he felt that some of the people he loved best in the world seemed to like one another. He hoped that August would yield similar results when they saw Julia at the fair in Pueblo.

When at last they said their final goodbyes, it was past lunch time, and it was late afternoon by the time they got back to the house. Quentin drifted hazily through his evening chores, and so caught up was he in fondness and exhaustion that he barely felt the usual hunger that signaled the day's end. Only the encroaching twilight reminded him that he'd better get to washing up.

He forewent his usual routine in favor of following Eliot down to the creek. It was already late for supper and the moon rose low on the horizon, not quite full but enough to illuminate their path as they made their way. Eliot kept up a gentle pace of conversation about nothing in particular, and Quentin listened and responded with ease. 

"That was a lovely party," Quentin said as they settled on the bank. Nothing could convey the depth of gratitude he felt or the warmth he felt at such kinship, extended to him like an unfurling vine. 

"I’m glad," Eliot said easily, as though he had known Quentin all his life, as if throwing a party for him was something he’d always done, an annual tradition that he had merely continued rather than a unique occurrence in Quentin’s young life. Quentin watched as Eliot rolled a cigarette, and then as the blue smoke rose into the blue moonlight and drifted away. When Eliot passed it to him, he accepted it and imagined his chest turning blue from the inside out, something to mirror a time since passed, a thing he hoped did not yet wait in front of him again.

He said, "No one has ever done that for me, not since I was very small."

"That’s a shame," Eliot said quietly. He turned, then, to regard Quentin. There was a lightness to his expression that was now familiar, though it lacked the sardonic curve that so often played at his lips. Instead, Eliot’s smile looked almost gentle. The center of Quentin’s chest felt warm, like a small fire— an ember, really— burned beneath his bones. 

"It was very kind of you," he said.

Quentin allowed himself the indulgence of leaning against Eliot, their original task forgotten. This time, though, he did not stop when their shoulders touched. He let his head drift until it rested on Eliot’s shoulder, scooting down against the rocky bank. He nestled against the warmth of Eliot’s side and breathed in the scent of him.

A long moment passed in silence. But it was not the silence Quentin knew, that made him anxious or set him babbling; it was not the sort of silence that begged to be filled, that required words. It was a comfortable thing, full of infinite possibility, stretching out in every direction like the fields and mountains that surrounded them. He fell comfortably into the hope of his own feelings, the joy and the potential and the love.

"Q?" Eliot’s voice was thin when at last he spoke.

"Yeah?"

Eliot wrapped his arm around him— not just to touch, Quentin realized, but to embrace, to hold him near. He took it as permission to snuggle in a little closer, until they were pressed together from shoulder to knee. Like this, he could see the rise and fall of Eliot's chest, the fine hair at the open notch of his collar; he could feel the scratch of the stubble on his neck against his temple.

Then he felt Eliot nosing at his hair and the press of his lips to his crown. 

"Happy birthday," Eliot whispered.

Quentin almost laughed, overcome, but found his throat too thick to do so. Instead he nodded, just so, a wash of relief when Eliot didn't pull away.

For a while longer, they sat like that: curled close on the rocky bank while the creek gently lapped at their feet. Quentin closed his eyes and tried to memorize the feeling as he had that hot day not a week ago— the smell of algae, the sound of bubbling water and the owl that hooted in the distance, the warm air all around them. Most of all, he tucked away every detail of Eliot’s touch, the comfort of it, the pressure of his ribs as they expanded, and was so absorbed in the process that he almost didn’t notice as Eliot took his hand.

He drew in a sharp breath. Truthfully, Quentin was not sure of Eliot’s feelings toward him. His flirtatiousness might merely be an element of his nature; his affections might fall toward the fraternal. Which was not to say that Quentin minded, exactly. He could not be called ungrateful for the kindness and the love that Eliot had shown him, whatever his motivations.

But it was impossible to deny the nature of his own attraction any longer. Since the day that he and Margo read together, Quentin had thought often of laying again beside Eliot in bed, of what it might mean to share a bed without such pretense. And now, as he sat on the bank hand in hand with this man who had come into his life as suddenly as a summer storm, he considered the way that his heart fluttered when Eliot was near, how he couldn’t help but smile when their gazes met. Pressed tightly against him as he was, Quentin realized that their simple affection no longer felt sufficient to express the want that grew in his chest.

For the first time in his life, he wanted _more_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was indeed a [camel corps](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Camel_Corps) before the civil war.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks to em for the endless betaing and listening to me whine, and to ibby for all the encouragement.
> 
> this was such a fun chapter to write and i'm excited to finally share it. i hope it's a small comfort in this absolutely insane time, and that you're all safe and well.
> 
> [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_ebDcs72PQ) is the song i imagine playing during the dance- not entirely contemporaneous, but not too far off.

#### CHAPTER 4

* * *

With August came the last gasps of summertime. While the heat still prevailed, the nights began to cool ever so slightly, the breeze beating gently at Eliot’s tent when he retired each night. Each morning the green grass was covered in a dew that dampened Eliot’s bare feet; he took great pleasure in the feeling of its coolness beneath him.

On that cool ground he learned to check the young fruit for pests and signs of disease, trailing behind Quentin as he instructed him in the ways of spotting insects and rot. Eliot learned that curculio left behind small crescents in the fruit, and how to spot the tell-tale gooseflesh of rust on the tender leaves. 

The harvest would meet them next month just in time for autumn. The most important event, however, lay at the end of the month: the state fair in Pueblo, where Quentin would go to investigate potential crops while the rest of them wandered around the fairgrounds gorging themselves on caramel corn and watched those with more gumption than sense get bucked off of broncos at the rodeo. In truth, Eliot looked forward to it. After almost three months on the orchard, a break in the routine would be a welcome relief.

Especially, Eliot knew, given the amount of time he’d spent with Quentin in his sights. Things had not changed much since that day at the creek, despite Eliot’s inability to keep his feelings to himself. They carried on as they had before, their easy affection with one another unchanged. But the want that burned steadily in Eliot’s center for weeks had only been stoked by seeing Quentin as he had; he could not deny the surprise at the strength evident in his thighs, the furred, firm plane of his belly— and worst, the delightfully thick cock he’d glimpsed. The affection he’d felt since they met was now streaked with thick threads of desire, undeniable and distracting.

Certainly, then, a change of scenery would do him good.

The night before they set out, the four of them sat around the table, though the food was far richer than their usual fare. Eliot’s nervous energy had been channeled into a delicately spit-roast chicken, and he had set Quentin to creaming the first batch of spinach from the incipient autumn garden. It felt like a special occasion. As silly as Eliot felt, it brought him undeniable joy to place the browned bird on the table to the _oohs_ and _aahs_ of the Coldwaters. It was almost as if they were adventurers feasting before a long journey. The mood was merry and Eliot could not help but feel excited for the week that lay ahead.

"Y’all excited for the trip?” Ted asked as they sat down to eat. 

Margo smiled warmly. "Oh, of _course_. Quentin has told us all about the rodeo and culinary delights that we might enjoy." With that, she winked at Quentin, who in turn blushed in that beautiful way that was uniquely his: not only across his cheeks, but also visibly down his neck. Eliot had to hand it to her; her affection for the Coldwaters was imminently believable, even after all these weeks.

"What about you, Ted?" Eliot said.

Ted wiped his mouth and frowned. He paused for a moment, visibly collecting his thoughts, or else trying to find the words. At last he said, "I’m afraid it’ll just be the three of you."

A shadow seemed to fall across the room; even the crickets seemed to quiet their chirping. Eliot saw the look of hurt pass over Quentin’s face, the way his mouth curved down. He looked as though he had just been told that Christmas had been cancelled, but that he fancied himself too old to care, and thus sought to hide his disappointment.

Ted seemed to sense something much the same. He said, "Q, it’s a two day ride with the wagon and I’ll make it three. I can't do my part driving and I don’t want to slow y’all down. Besides, I need the rest from all of you." 

Margo shifted in her seat. "Won't you be in need of care? I doubt your son would see you left alone for a week."

"Don't be silly," he said. "Quentin needs a reprieve from me as much as I need one from y’all." Though he smiled at the three of them, Eliot could not help but see the slight strain to the corners of it. It was all the more obvious to him now after knowing not only Ted Coldwater these weeks, but also his son. And sure as day, Quentin’s expression mirrored that tension.

"Would you take offense if I asked the Quinns to check in on you?" Quentin said. 

Ted was quiet for a moment. He looked from Quentin to Eliot and to Margo, his tired eyes tracing the arc of them across the table. He had the look of someone who had had this argument many times before and might at last have reached his end with it.

Ted sighed. "If it'll ease you."

Quentin nodded. "Thank you." Each syllable was short. Eliot resisted the urge to touch Quentin's leg under the table, to ease him, to give him ground to stand on. A few tense moments passed while Quentin pushed his food around his plate, refusing to look up. Eliot locked eyes with Margo and frowned.

As he always had with Quentin, he gave in, reaching for Quentin. He gave Quentin's thigh a brief squeeze and let his hand rest there. Quentin did not turn, but Eliot thought he could see his eyes drift over the table, as if observing Eliot's hand through its surface. 

"I suppose we might take Kady, then?" Quentin said. 

"Naturally," Ted said. He chuckled and took a sip of his coffee, putting an end to any remaining argument.

Later that night, Eliot sat in the rocker beside Quentin as they sipped their coffee. The air was abnormally humid, thick and sticky around them. It was almost a medium for the tension that had followed Quentin out onto the porch.

"You’re sure you’ll be all right to leave your daddy?" Eliot asked. He tipped his flask into his earthenware mug and offered it to Quentin; that he accepted was a clear indication of his distress.

"I wish we didn’t have to," Quentin said. He thanked Eliot with a slight tip of his mug. "But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to get out of here for a few days."

"I take it the fair’s quite the," Eliot paused to turn a smile on Quentin, "quite the _affair_ for y’all."

Quentin rolled his eyes and Eliot’s smile broadened; the joy of annoying him only grew with each passing day.

"It is, truth be told. I always," Quentin sighed, running his finger along the rim of his cup. Eliot shifted closer to knock his knee against Quentin's encouragingly. "The fair always means that the harvest is due, then it's time for planting."

"You look forward to it?"

Quentin nodded. "It's the one chance in the year I get to try new things. The rest of the time it's just," he gestured broadly at the land in front of them. "It's all the same."

Eliot regarded Quentin silently for a moment. The sinking sunlight set his face alight in warmth, casting him in all the tones of late summer, alluding to autumn with its oranges and yellows. Eliot could not help but imagine how beautiful he must look in winter, when the frost might turn his cheeks a pleasing pink and the dark skin at his collar, honeyed though it was, might better match the fair hues Eliot had observed that day at the creek.

"I thought you were content with things," Eliot said gently.

"I _am_ ," Quentin sighed, "or I thought I was. I don’t know. I’d be lying if I said having y’all here didn’t kick something up in me. You two have so much ahead of you and I— I’ll be here forever." He sighed again, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one hand. When he spoke next, his voice was quiet, almost fragile. "After Pa goes, I don’t know what I’ll do."

Eliot could only wrap an arm around Quentin’s shoulder and squeeze him close for a second, rubbing his arm. He understood how loneliness could seep into one’s sense of self, and how Ted’s decision to stay back must have reminded Quentin of the inevitable.

Quentin exhaled forcefully and straightened. He shook his head apologetically and smiled.

"You ever attend the state fair in Texas?" Quentin asked.

Eliot scoffed. "And go to _Dallas_? I think not."

"Oh, and I'm sure Goodnight is the pinnacle of cosmopolitan."

Eliot shrugged, sipping his coffee. In truth, he had once longed to reach Dallas or even Oklahoma City, those distant places that had seemed almost magical in his young mind. They seemed impossibly far away now, places he could not and did not wish to imagine. The dreams of his youth were best kept tucked away, near his heart, where no one ever dared to reach.

"Well, no," Eliot conceded, "but every star begins as dust, doesn't he?"

Quentin rolled his eyes and the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his dear mouth.

Eliot's heart fluttered. For the first time in many years, he felt himself falling into the pit of need, to be seen, to be known. But to give into it was dangerous— not only for what it would mean if Quentin knew the extent of his past, but also for the way it would open a wound in him. For so long, he had thought himself composed of scar tissue, bonded over and thicker than skin. Protected. Safe. But at the center of Quentin lived a raw tenderness that Eliot knew also beat under his own layers of cicatricial defense, and it called to Eliot, reaching into the very core of him, past all his old hurts, daring him to expose his most defenseless insides. A reciprocity, an exchange.

A wound for a wound; a heart for a heart.

Worse, a part of him wanted it, reckless though it was. And Eliot was indisputably a reckless person.

So he said, "My mama died when I was small. I had— have— four brothers. I’m the youngest. My daddy, he was," he paused, searching for the right words. "He was not a kind man. The ranch was left up to me and my brothers to run, but most of them got out as quick as they could until it was just me. I left home in ‘88 and never looked back."

Quentin looked up at him, squinting. Eliot could not read his expression.

"My condolences," Quentin said. He pronounced each syllable with the same care he exercised in every corner of his life. "It must be hard, not having kin to rely on."

Eliot nodded. "That’s all right. Margo is all the family I need."

A look of hurt briefly passed over Quentin's face, his naturally sorrowful eyes widening. For a fleeting second, Eliot thought to correct himself, to say _Except you_ or perhaps _And you, of course_. But in the end he could not find the words in time, and the moment passed as quickly as Quentin's baleful expression. Eliot knocked back what remained of his coffee and stood to hold a hand out to Quentin.

He said, "Let's hit the hay. Sounds like we've got quite the journey ahead of us."

"Indeed," Quentin said. He ignored Eliot's outstretched hand and kept his eyes on the ground as he went into the house, leaving Eliot on the porch, alone.

* * *

The elder Coldwater looked on as the four of them loaded the wagon. His steel grey hair had begun to whiten toward the temples, and his eyes, which bore such similarity to his son's, were bracketed by the thin wrinkles of his encroaching age. His skin, while not as sallow as it had been upon Eliot and Margo's arrival, still bore some indication of ill health, though it was just as likely that Ted simply lacked the rouge vigor of youth.

When they were done, he gave Quentin a hug and a kiss, and Eliot felt a pang at such fatherly affection. "Y’all take care," he said. "Try not to have too much fun."

Quentin laughed and squeezed him around the shoulders. "We’ll be back Sunday next. Please, take care of yourself, Pa."

"I will."

Quentin nodded and turned toward the wagon, where Kady and Margo already sat in the bed. Eliot smiled and shrugged, as though he were sorry to have to share the seat with Quentin up front.

"We’ll let the ladies have first turn in the back," Quentin said conspiratorially. The hint of melancholy that had weighed so heavily the previous evening seemed to have cleared, much to Eliot’s relief. Quentin settled into the seat and motioned for Eliot to join him.

"Don’t let them hear you call them ladies," Eliot said, accepting Quentin’s hand as he hoisted himself up beside him. "You won’t make it Pueblo alive."

Once they were all settled, Eliot shook the reins and the wagon hitched forward.

The trail to Pueblo was not a rough one, and the first day passed pleasantly. The sky was a clear, deep blue, the only clouds visible above the far-off mountaintops, and the meadows were awash in a late summer bloom of larkspur and phlox. Above them, two hawks flew, fighting or playing or something else, Eliot didn't know, and all around them were the sounds of nature that he had lately come to take for granted: the bubble of a nearby brook, the songs of birds, and the breeze that rattled and shook the spindly evergreens. It was, all told, quite different from the sounds of his childhood, of winds across the prairie and the braying of livestock, and he was grateful for it. That he should be alive and allowed to witness such beauty felt nothing short of a miracle.

To share it with Quentin, so near him in the driver’s seat, was all the better. The seat was wide enough for two, certainly, but Quentin’s affectionate nature drew Eliot toward him like he was the Earth itself, and Eliot a comet, and they spent the better part of the day knocking knees or else pressed together from ankle to hip. It did not occur to Eliot to ask for a rest in the back.

They camped that first night and ate the hearty sandwiches that Ted had packed for them, ham and lettuce from the garden. They did not even bother to light a fire; the balmy summer air kept them warm enough and the moon gave them enough light by which to see. As Eliot bedded down, surrounded by his oldest friend and the only other people to whom he had ever applied the label, he could not help but feel grateful.

For the first time in a long time, he felt almost young. 

The next day went by quickly and they closed in on Pueblo at dusk. They stabled the horses and found their rooms, Kady with Quentin and Margo with Eliot. Though their accommodations were not of the highest order, they were sufficient: a bed big enough for two and a wash basin would see them through the week. 

"Well," Margo said as she flopped down on the bed she and Eliot would share, "it’ll be nice to sleep in a proper bed for once."

"Indeed," Eliot laughed. He unbuttoned his shirt and she rolled around atop the bed, her eyes closed as she relished the soft mattress. At last, she turned over onto her belly to look at him. Her eyes were alight with mischief before she even spoke.

"You and Quentin seemed— _cozy_ on the trip."

He threw his shirt toward her and she batted it away. It landed in a heap on the floor and Eliot huffed indignantly as he stooped to retrieve it. 

"What are we gonna do with you, El?" Margo asked. Once satisfied that his shirt was properly hung, Eliot turned to her and sighed.

"Ain’t as though I’ve done anything."

"Do you want to?"

He shot her a sharp glance. "Margo, don’t tease me."

"Maybe you ought to get it over with," she said. She pulled a cigarette from her case and lit it, regarding him with more irritation than interest.

"How do you mean?" Eliot said flatly.

"Don’t play dumb with me," she said. "I’ve seen you like this before and I know there’s only one of two ways out: hurry up and seduce him or stop pining, you ninny."

He sighed again, more deeply this time, and fell dramatically to lay beside her. The cotton of the duvet was cool under his shirtless back and God, it _was_ good to lay in a bed again, he had to admit. 

"Didn't you say not to do anything stupid?" 

"It's only stupid if you let it be. We're here for at least another month and at this point it might do you good."

The late summer heat had made molasses of them all; Eliot felt himself melting as he stole her cigarette. "Maybe you’re right," he said.

"Of course I am," she said, and took it back.

He ignored the desire his face had to frown, burying his face in the bedding to hide any hint of it. "Shall we rest before supper?" he asked the duvet.

"Let’s," Margo said, and stubbed out the cigarette in the tray on the nightstand. She curled up against him without further teasing, her body a comforting weight on his back.

When they emerged from their room for dinner, as finely dressed as they had been in weeks, Eliot felt himself relax. Though their hotel was not grand, it was a _scene_ , a place in which Eliot could find a place, a role, and fall into the comfort of performance. It was a habit that his time on the orchard— his time with Quentin, really— had lately forced him out of, and he had not realized how much he missed it. He felt as though he were a monarch resuming his mantle, assuming the mask of authority that his time spent plowing the fields had stripped him of.

So he offered his arm to Margo, who stood shining in aubergine, her bodice rich with lace at the low neckline and her skirt beautifully narrow at the ankles. The bright plumage in her wide hat was delicately angled to her left, so that when she took his arm it would not come between them. She looked up at him and smiled, and they stepped into the dining room.

He felt eyes on them as soon as they made their entrance. He knew they looked quite the picture, Margo at the avant garde of fashion and Eliot reaching so far back in time, with his silk stockings and white tie, that he had effectively come back around to the front to stand beside her. He felt himself slipping into an aloofness of character as they made their way through the dining room, where they, being half an hour late, knew Quentin and Kady must already be waiting for them.

Indeed, toward the back of the room, Quentin and Kady sat at a table with a woman Eliot did not recognize. She too was fashionably dressed, her sleeves puffed and hems laced, though Eliot could not help but judge her less stunning than Margo. But then, no one had ever outshone her in his eyes.

"Eliot!" Quentin cried as they approached. The flush across his cheeks meant he was at least a glass or two in, and Eliot noted the empty bottle on the table. That Quentin stood not only to pull out Margo’s chair but also Eliot’s not only confirmed his suspicion at Quentin’s state, but also, awfully, made his heart flutter. He took his seat and nodded obligingly up at Quentin, who returned to his own and filled their glasses.

"This is Julia," Quentin said. "We were the best of friends as children."

"Oh," Margo cooed. "The one you used to play magic with at the creek?"

Julia smiled and tilted her head in greeting. "The very same," she laughed. "Quentin’s been telling me about the two of you, Eliot and Margo, I presume?" Her hair shone even in the dim light of the dining room, and Eliot was pleased to observe that her friendliness seemed genuine. He did not detect any of the bitterness of early love, nor did Quentin’s behavior bear the shy edges of— of what? Of the way he treated Eliot? He banished the thought and raised his now full glass to Julia.

"Indeed. A pleasure, of course. I hope Quentin hasn’t spoiled us for you."

"Oh no, he’s merely alluded to your adventures. I confess to being immensely curious, however."

"As am I," Eliot said smoothly. "Quentin has told us so little of what you’ve been up to since you left your swashbuckling days behind." 

Julia laughed and gently slapped at Quentin’s arm. "Naturally. Well, mostly I’ve been riding broncs."

"No," Margo gasped, "Quentin, your dearest, oldest friend is a _rodeo girl_ and you never thought to tell us?"

Eliot smiled as Quentin blushed into his wine. "It never came up."

"Oh, Q," Eliot said fondly, patting the back of his hand. He turned his smile to Julia in time to see her narrow eyes before she seemed to school her expression, grinning brightly. 

They ate and drank and smoked their way through a pleasant evening, retiring to the bar after dinner to continue their warm conversation. Though Eliot had come to feel at home in the orchard, there was truly no substitute for a hazy room and crystal snifter, and he felt profoundly comfortable as he lounged beside Margo, listening to their friends regale one another with tales of childhood and rodeo exploits alike.

"So Julia," Margo asked from her spot beside Eliot on a chaise, "how exactly does one become a rodeo gal?"

"First off, have this one as a best friend," she said, shoving gently at Quentin’s shoulder. "He was always the most encouraging, once he stopped being in love with me."

Quentin rolled his eyes as the rest of them whooped and hollered. "Look, y’all, I was a _child_. Who wouldn’t be in love with Julia?"

"Entirely fair," Margo laughed, raising her glass toward the woman in question. "But she wasn’t done answering my question."

"Well, to be frank, I needed to get out. Papa had me all set to marry this lawyer out of Denver, and of course mama’d never fight him on it."

"So you up and joined the _rodeo_?" Eliot said, gleeful at the idea of such a scandal.

"It would seem that I did," she said. She tipped her head back and smiled. "It was quick, I liked it, and it made me entirely unmarriageable. I get to travel all around, meeting new people, seeing new things. I didn’t know it then, but it was the life I’d always dreamt of. I can’t imagine how things would’ve turned out if I stayed."

Eliot looked to Quentin as she spoke. While he certainly could not blame her for turning tail the way she had— indeed, Eliot was familiar with the urge— his chest tightened at the expression on Quentin’s face. His mouth was pulled tight in a smile, his eyes a little downcast, and Eliot longed to soothe the furrow from his brow. 

Eliot had always had Margo; he could not imagine the pain of being left behind.

He stretched one long leg out to tap Quentin’s toe with the very tip of his shoe. Quentin looked up at him then and smiled, his honest mouth curving upward. Eliot could only hope that Quentin understood the place he now held in Eliot’s life, and a treacherous, drunken part of him internally swore that he would never, ever leave him.

"Will we have the pleasure of seeing you ride?" Eliot asked.

"Indeed, on Friday afternoon."

"You don’t know what a treat you’re in for," Kady said. "Julia’s truly one of the finest riders in the state."

"I look forward to it," Eliot said, smiling. With that, took out his cigarette case and passed one to Quentin.

"Give one here?" Julia said.

"Oh," Eliot cooed as he passed her his case, "a rodeo girl and a smoker. Q, how dare you keep her hidden from us for so long."

Quentin shook his head as he lit his cigarette and inhaled. "I swear, if y’all don’t stop teasing me," he said mildly. Eliot again tapped his toe against Quentin’s, all but begging him to offer his precious smile again, and he did, dimpling sweetly in Eliot’s direction.

It was a good thing, Eliot thought, that they were not left alone that night. 

The next morning, they rose late and after a hasty breakfast made their way to the fairgrounds. Though it had all been in swing for more than a week, the energy was such that Eliot would believe it was opening day. The crowds seemed to move about in the highest of spirits, children laughing and spouses smiling at one another as they browsed the stalls. 

"What do you think?" Quentin asked as they crossed under the grand arch that marked the entrance. All around them were merchants hawking everything from pies to pigs, even some selling corsets and ties. Truthfully, despite his many travels, he had not yet seen so much variety in a single place, and told Quentin so as they passed a stall promising cures for gout and baldness. 

"Is there anything you’ve got your eye on?" Eliot asked.

"I always try and pick up a few saplings," Quentin said. "There are usually a few growers from the territories with something novel, and you never know what’ll take best to our land."

Eliot smiled and resisted the almost overwhelming urge to kiss Quentin square on the mouth. Could he truly have no idea how precious his devotion was?

As if he’d heard Eliot’s thoughts, Quentin shrugged, blushing ever so slightly. "Anyway, you should make sure to try the caramel corn. It’ll rot your teeth but it’s worth it."

They walked through the rows and rows of stalls, a small bag of confections in each of their hands. Before long, Kady and Margo went their own way to admire Ute wares, in search of jewelry and blankets and other finery, leaving Eliot to trail behind Quentin and Julia as he updated her on the gossip back home, who had married who and who had left and who stayed. Quentin cast the occasional glance back at Eliot, as though to make sure he was included, but Eliot didn’t mind; it was a pleasure just to listen.

At one point, Quentin and Julia disappeared for upwards of half an hour, and Eliot ignored the gentle punch his absence caused beneath his ribs. It was normal, he knew. They would not always remain by each other’s side. And besides, he deserved to have time with Julia, the person who knew him and loved him best in the world, while Eliot had failed to call him family.

Despite his slight bend toward melancholy, that first day passed easily, and Eliot availed of the variety of food and drink as he strolled through the stalls. In another life, he might have made shy eye contact with the boy selling fresh milk and butter, or else the muscular man with a soft face showing lambs at the corral. But he could not find it in himself to be interested. Instead he could only admire the shape of Quentin’s shoulders upon his return, the way the sunlight fell over them and cast him all in gold. He indulged in the feeling of Quentin’s back pressed up to his chest when he snuck up behind him to steal a slice of honeyed plum, and the way Quentin smiled up, always up, at him.

"There’s a dance tomorrow," Quentin said when they arrived back at their rooms. "So we ought to take it easy for tonight." He smiled wider and gave an awkward half-wink, his face scrunching up in a manner so precious that it was all Eliot could do not to pull him into his room, Margo’s cares be damned.

But his last bit of will stood firm. "All the better to celebrate Julia’s impending victory," Eliot said, smiling. He felt an undeniable excitement at the idea of a dance, and of another night spent celebrating with his friends. "We’ll see y’all in the morning."

With that, he retreated to his room, where Margo undoubtedly waited for him with more teasing and, he hoped, a bottle of whiskey.

* * *

The second and final day of the fair dawned, and the group made its way to the grounds much earlier than they had the day before. It was a perfect day for the rodeo, sunny and warm. Still, a slight breeze swirled around them, cool and sure, and Eliot was reminded that winter and its many dues were not far off.

They found their way to the ring, where Julia and the other women would take their stand against the finest broncs Colorado had to offer. They settled into the stands and Quentin passed Eliot a small bag of popcorn.

The first rider came out in a blaze of dappled grey, barely lasting a few seconds before she flew off the saddle in unglamorous fashion. Eliot winced as she landed, though she quickly rose and seemed unhurt. 

"Is it always this bad?" Eliot asked.

"No," Kady said, "most make it the six or eight seconds they’re supposed to." She smiled at him and threw a small piece of popcorn at him. "Don’t you know all this? I thought you grew up in Texas."

Eliot laughed. "Well, my daddy wasn’t too keen on letting us go to ladies' rodeo events. He thought it was unnatural."

Margo rolled her eyes. "Of course he did. What an awful man."

"You’ll never hear me argue that point," Eliot said. With that, their exchange was cut short the next rider came out of the shoot, the horse bucking smoothly as the rider seemed to flow directly from the saddle, her body waving back and forth like a pennant in the wind. 

"That’s more like it!" Kady yelled. The woman grinned, her long hair flowing loose from its tie, and she followed the wranglers back to the shoot.

"Here we go," Quentin said, "Jules is next."

Eliot could not help but hold his breath as he waited for the gate to open. From their vantage point, he could not make out Julia’s expression, but he could see the way her shoulders rose and fell evenly with her steady breath. She must be made of strong stuff, Eliot realized, perhaps even as strong as Margo.

Suddenly the chute was open and she was out, the bronco bucking with the force of tornado over the plains. Julia held on as her back bowed gracefully, her free hand waving in a way that almost struck Eliot as casual. Even the horse seemed to possess a certain elegance, its bucking more of an undulation even as both of its hooves left the ground in one particularly fantastic jump.

All too quickly, the wranglers ran up alongside her and she threw herself from the bronco onto the subdued gelding. Kady and Quentin cheered as she rode out of the ring, their voices lost in the sound of so many riotous onlookers.

The remainder of the event seemed to pass by in a blur, and it was no surprise when the judges announced their scores that Julia was best among them. Eliot barely had time to feel excitement before he found himself arm in arm with Margo again, this time approaching the huge, barn-like structure that served as a dancehall during the fair.

Julia met them outside the hall, her elegant gown seemingly permanently exchanged for trousers and chaps. Truly, she looked the part of a rodeo star, her hat a fine felt and her belt buckle studded with turquoise. Surrounding her was a crowd of admirers, men and women alike, and she seemed to handle the crowd with gentle grace, her smile gleaming and genuine. 

"Jules!" Quentin called as they approached. She seemed to make her excuses and made her way toward the group, half-running with excitement until she met Quentin in a crushing hug. "You were great," he said, smiling into her shoulder. Eliot shook his head against the wave of tenderness he felt at watching their embrace. He took Margo’s hand and squeezed, that his empathy might have a proper recipient.

"Shall we go in?" Julia asked as she and Quentin parted.

"Let’s," Kady said. She took Julia by the arm to lead her in, as Margo and Eliot flanked Quentin. If Eliot tugged him a little close as they crossed the threshold, he didn’t seem to mind.

The hall seemed enormous, full to the brim with fairgoers and music. Here and there, people danced in groups and in couples, all stomping and laughing and holding one another in the electric lights of the hall. There were bowls of punch and distillers hawking their wares, and those who’d brought their own to share from home. There was an energy to the place that sent excitement thrumming through Eliot’s veins; the anonymity of it, the promise. Next to him, Quentin looked around with less wonder than anxiety. With hardly a thought, Eliot threw his arm over Quentin’s shoulders companionably to guide him further into the fray.

"Do you dance, Q?" Margo said.

"Oh, he absolutely _does_ ," Kady laughed. 

"Only if you find me a whiskey," Quentin said with a slight grin, "or several." Eliot felt himself mirror Quentin’s smile as though he could ever achieve the same deep dimples.

"Oh sweetheart, don’t ever encourage me to ply you with liquor," Margo said, and took Kady’s arm. They floated away to one of the many stalls selling various homebrews, disappearing quickly into the crowd.

"She’s going to kill me, ain’t she?" Quentin half-shouted over the din of the hall. His voice was close enough that Eliot felt his breath against his ear.

Eliot shrugged. "Most likely."

"What about you? Do you dance?"

"Well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?" he said. When Margo and Kady returned shortly with their drinks, Eliot quickly downed his and took Margo by the hand.

"Already eager to show off?" Margo laughed as she accepted.

"Don’t you know it."

Eliot led Margo into the center of the room as Quentin and Julia cheered. They made their rounds, greeting each couple in the circle in turn. Eliot knew they shone together as they always had, from the Panhandle to the Rockies. It was the place he loved most— the limelight, center stage, all eyes on them. Even here, in a dirt-floored hall, he knew they had a glow about them, and that they were the envy of every man and woman in sight.

He glanced over in time to see Quentin begin his turn with Julia, laughing gaily as she took his arm and the lead in one step. His hair fell over his face as he looked down and caught his footing, then they were off, kicking up dust as they spun around the room.

"What do you think?" Margo half-shouted over the music.

"About?"

She tilted her head toward Quentin, who now danced a square around Julia in nothing resembling time. "You gonna do something about that?"

Eliot sighed dramatically and twirled Margo in response, taking in her delighted laugh and the way her hair tumbled over her shoulders as she spun. Her distraction was not to last, however, as Quentin and Julia came up beside them. With a single motion, Margo twisted delicately out of Eliot’s grasp, leaving him alone on the dance floor.

Eliot’s heart beat desperately. If there was any better time, he couldn’t imagine it. He dared to reach for Quentin, who came easily away from Julia and into Eliot's orbit. Briefly, he looked quizzically at Eliot’s hand in his, and Eliot’s heart thumped painfully in his chest as he waited for Quentin to register Eliot’s unspoken question, to pull away. Quentin vanquished his doubt with a smile and a hand at Eliot’s waist.

"Shall we?" he said brightly. Eliot could only nod and follow, as if this had been Quentin’s plan instead of his all along.

The music was loud and tinny and the stomps of everyone dancing hid the sound of Eliot’s eager heart. He smiled as Quentin pulled him close and then twirled him like a new bride, their arms arcing over Eliot’s head but Quentin too short to fully execute the maneuver, forcing Eliot to bend to accommodate it. Even as his back ached and his wrist strained, he laughed, high and tinkling like a child. Quentin echoed his laughter.

As the beat picked up and the banjo players found their stride, he kept laughing, laughing and laughing as his lungs filled up and his cheeks flushed and he grew damp with sweat and he saw Quentin’s face— beautiful, beautiful Q, who loved his orchard and his books and had never once doubted Eliot, who allowed him and Margo into his home and became their friend and let them in, let them know him in a way no one else ever had, Eliot was sure— he saw Quentin’s flushed, dimpled cheeks, his smile so wide and reaching so high that it almost closed his eyes, and something in him came stuttering to a halt. For a long moment, all he could see was Quentin, the room a blur around them.

"You’re good at this," Quentin said, out of breath from the speed of their movement.

"So are you!" Eliot gasped. They spun another two turns, smiling at one another.

Over Quentin’s shoulder, Eliot saw Margo and Kady draw so close that their noses touched, and could not find Julia anywhere. He smiled when Margo glanced up and met his eye, and she shook her head in a way that implied he should be ashamed of them both. He grinned at her, his most winning smile, and pulled Quentin flush against him: hand to hand, shoulder to shoulder.

Quentin let out an _oof_ as they collided, but seemed unperturbed when he pressed up against Eliot in a way that he might have called scandalous in another life. He could feel the heat of Quentin’s chest against his own, of his breath against his neck; he was solid, sure, more real than Eliot had ever felt. His heart beat a steady rhythm of _I know him, I know him_ in time with the fiddle and he found himself aching for a closeness unlike everything else he’d ever felt.

The music slowed, then, and Eliot glanced down, questioning. Quentin, still smiling and panting from the rapid pace of the previous song, looked up at Eliot and shrugged so sweetly that Eliot almost didn’t believe it. Then, worse, he smiled his broad, dimpled smile, and offered his hand. Eliot accepted, even as the floor cleared of those who were not married or sweethearts or otherwise formally coupled.

When Quentin wound one arm around his waist and settled his fingers into the folds of Eliot’s shirt, Eliot almost gasped, felt his knees go a little weak. Once steadied, he let his own hand drift to the small of Quentin’s back. He swallowed and hesitated for a moment, his fingertips an exacting pressure as he waited for some divine intervention, some lightning bolt or else a gale between them, something to break them apart and tell Eliot that he was wrong, that he had misread and misled in every way he could.

He took a breath and held the count till three; nothing happened. So he flattened his palm to pull Quentin’s hips almost indecently against his own and held him there as they swayed in the crowd.

Quentin looked up and smiled, his dimples pushing more firmly into his cheeks. "Hi," he said. 

"Hello there," Eliot said. He hoped his voice was even as he took Quentin’s right hand in his left. "Having a nice night?"

"Absolutely lovely," Quentin said and if Eliot was not desperately, terribly mistaken, he canted his hips just so.

Eliot could not resist replying, "What’s been so lovely about it?"

"Oh, the whiskey and the music, mostly," Quentin said. Without thinking, Eliot glared heatlessly down at him and squeezed his waist.

Quentin’s eyes seemed to twinkle in the low light of the hall, and Eliot felt the crowd around them melt away. In that moment, it was only the two of them, pressed together as the fiddle drew out its long notes. He knew himself to be in possession of a romantic nature, and yet his nature could not explain the way that Quentin observed his face in the same careful way he observed the new fruit of the orchard. Indeed, his gaze was tender, and lingered near Eliot’s lips.

Eliot could not help but feel as if he were newly formed, too, a fragile and precious thing for which Quentin might care. 

"What about the company?" Eliot said. His voice nearly trembled.

"The company?" Quentin replied. He bit his lip and blinked slowly before he looked up at Eliot through his eyelashes and— surely he knew what he was doing, what his hooded gaze conveyed. After a millennium, he drew in a deep breath and said, "Incomparable."

With that, he drew himself toward Eliot until they were nearly flush, and rested his cheek against Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot held him close as the music carried on, his chin resting on Quentin’s crown.

Eventually the music picked back up, and they drifted from one another to dance again with their friends. After that, they danced mostly in a group, smiling and laughing as they passed around cups of whiskey and moonshine. Despite the air of joy to the occasion, Eliot found himself uncharacteristically exhausted, as if dancing with Quentin had been a task of Herculean proportion. And in a way, it had been; Eliot felt nothing less than heroic for resisting the urge to pull Quentin into a kiss for the rest of the night.

And so shortly after midnight, Eliot begged off Margo’s offer to accompany him back to the room.

"No, no," he said, "I think you have offers to attend to." He nodded over Margo’s shoulder to Kady, who stood sipping a drink while Quentin and Julia spoke mostly in excited hand gestures. He caught her eye as she glanced toward Margo, giving her a wink as though she would ever ask for his approval.

"If you’re sure," Margo said carefully. "Won’t you say goodbye to Q?"

"I don’t want to interrupt his evening. Won’t you tell him for me?"

She narrowed her eyes even as she smiled, and he was grateful for her understanding. "Have a lovely night, Bambi. Godspeed in all your conquests."

"Goodnight, honey," she laughed and stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

With that, Eliot returned to his room alone. Even after he completed the motions of his nightly routine, his teeth clean and his face washed and cool, he couldn’t bring himself to settle. He sat on the end of the bed and picked at a hangnail that had bothered him since that afternoon, anything to distract him from dwelling too much on the way it had felt to hold Quentin close.

But it was no use. For what felt like hours, he thought of the feeling of Quentin's broad back under his hand, the feeling of his soft hair against Eliot’s cheek. He thought of the comfort of luxury, of performance that he still so desperately craved; he thought of the money hidden in Ted's chest of drawers that sat waiting to be taken, to be put to use getting him and Margo up to Victor, where one last job awaited them before San Francisco.

And then he'd be free, at long last, from the shackles of his past and the things that haunted him, if only he could get past the Rockies, the last bastion of his father's iron will.

They could leave the Coldwaters their money, he reasoned. It was small time compared to the grift they'd planned. After everything Quentin had given him, the least he could do was minimize the pain their leaving would cause. But how could he convince Margo of the same? Surely she’d see right through him, see that he sought to protect Quentin for reasons other than brotherly affection. It would be ridiculous, he thought— certainly, it would be ridiculous at this point to risk everything they’d built and dreamt, for a man, a boy, really, who would never leave his father’s land.

The sound of footsteps interrupted his racing thoughts. It was late, and certainly others were returning from the dance; certainly it could not be who he hoped. His heart, already beating fast, began to beat a steady drum against his ribs as the floorboards creaked and then there was the knock on the door, tentative, but not so quiet that Eliot could pretend not to have heard. He shook his head clear and rose to answer it.

"Hi," Quentin said, his hands clasped in front of him. "Can I come in?"

Eliot found himself wordless for the first time in recent memory. He was Eliot Waugh, he had a store of quick wit at the ready. Quentin, though. This boy robbed him of his faculties, made him dumbstruck and thick-tongued. The worst part, though, was that he didn’t mind.

"I, um," Quentin started. He shuffled into the room and stood in front of Eliot, his eyes wide and, Eliot wanted to think, hopeful. "Couldn’t sleep. And I thought— thought you might still be up."

Eliot fought to keep his expression from one of anxious delight. He was so, so glad to have Quentin here. He could not find the words to express it. The feeling simply lived beneath his breast bone, fluttering and falling, like it might grow wings.

"Indeed I am," Eliot said with all the charm he could muster. "Drink?"

"Sure," Quentin said.

They sat at the small table, lit by an electric light overhead. It was brighter than the lantern light Eliot was used to, but still left Quentin’s face in soft relief as he sipped his whiskey.

"I trust you've had a good trip?" Eliot said. His throat nearly closed around the words.

"Yes," Quentin said, smiling. "I've missed having Pa here, but it's been— well, it's been nice, having all of y'all."

"Don't think you could've gotten a little drunk and danced with a man with your daddy here, though."

Quentin laughed. "No, I don't think I would've." Eliot watched his face carefully for signs of embarrassment or regret. In the long moment that passed, he was met with only warm, brown eyes, crinkling beautifully at the corners. They held and averted their gazes in equal measure, until Quentin drew in a breath to speak.

"I suppose I, I wanted to thank you. For all of your help. And for— for being here. For being my friend."

Eliot felt tears rising behind his eyes, some combination of liquor and Quentin's earnestness intensifying every feeling. It felt absurd to be thanked for friendship so obliquely, as though Quentin had never expected to experience such belonging. But then, neither had Eliot— not beyond Margo, not really. He nodded and reached forward to cover Quentin’s hand. His fingers did not curl over the knobs of Quentin’s knuckles; he dared not assume such an intimacy.

"You’re most welcome, Quentin," he said, and swallowed hard. He did not know what he expected; he was terrified to want. "I’ve been glad for your father’s generosity, and your companionship. You can’t know what it means to me and Margo."

Quentin smiled. "I can imagine," he said. An eternity seemed to pass. Quentin did not withdraw his hand. Eliot could not bring himself to look down at the place where they touched. 

"El?"

"Yeah?" Eliot’s throat clicked when he spoke. For a long moment, Eliot didn’t move. Instead he sat there, with his palm resting on Quentin’s hand, and fought against every instinct he had: to run away, to lean in, to save at least one of them. This was not seduction, he knew. This was something else, something over which he had no control.

Then Quentin’s hand turned to curl around his own. "Why’d you leave without saying goodbye?" he whispered.

Eliot squeezed Quentin’s hand, almost too ashamed to meet his gaze. "I was afraid of what I might say."

"Will you say it now?"

"Q, I," he stuttered, unable to find the words. For a moment, they merely stared, regarding one another with an intensity that set Eliot's heart thumping hard in his chest. He felt the warmth of Quentin’s skin against his own, could see every small crease in his skin, the way his stubble shadowed his jaw. He inhaled to speak, not knowing what he might say. Then Quentin’s grip tightened, pulling Eliot forward as he leaned in to meet him. 

Everything in Eliot lit up as Quentin’s lips touched his own. He felt a jolt through his limbs, like the lamp above them had shattered and showered them with sparks, though the kiss itself was soft and shy. In complete truth, it wasn’t anything like Eliot had experienced before. He knew secret touches, furtive encounters limited to hands reaching beneath belts or rutting in the dark. Rarely had he known a man to kiss him at all. But Quentin was so precisely himself in every way, extending even into these most vulnerable moments. And of course— of course Quentin would be like this. He could no more withhold his affection than the sun could withhold its light.

Still, it was the briefest touch. When it was over, Eliot expected Quentin’s eyes to be full of trepidation, of fear. But Quentin stared up at him with a clarity unlike anything Eliot had seen.

Before he thought about it, his hand slipped over Quentin’s cheek to hold it, his thumb stroking the soft skin over bone. He felt as though he had let out a long sigh, his chest light and his mind clear.

"Quentin," he breathed, "you, you’re sure?"

Eliot felt hot and burning and yet, light, airy, something fully divorced from reality— a zeppelin, almost, something fantastical. As Quentin looked up at him with his creased, gentle eyes, he felt his diaphragm expand, making room near his heart for everything Quentin might give him. He felt unmoored, and Quentin was his lighthouse, the keeper of the keys, someone who might unlock everything awful inside him and guide him home.

Of all things, then, Quentin smiled. "Eliot," he said, somehow imbuing the syllables with the weight of prayer at the same time he seemed to chide him, "you have to know. You’ve got to." He nuzzled Eliot’s hand where it lay against his cheek, reaching up to grasp his wrist. Without waiting for Eliot’s reply, he guided Eliot's hand to the back of his neck and used the leverage to pull them together once again.

This— this was surrender, Eliot knew, this new and naked thing between them. The way Quentin’s fingers twisted in his shirt, not pulling or assuming, only— wanting, hoping. Even worse, the way Quentin seemed to give himself over fully, his limbs slack and his mouth soft, not undemanding but asking only for what Eliot might have to spare, like Eliot was a locomotive, surging through the mountains and Quentin was the route, the tracks, the path so delicately charted and— as if Eliot would mean anything without Quentin. And worse, as if Eliot hadn’t been thinking of this moment for weeks, as if he hadn’t imagined it, the way that Quentin’s lips might give underneath him, as if Eliot didn’t want to rob him in every sense of the word, as if selfishness wasn’t his nature; as though, Eliot thought with a needy seizure of his heart, that he might be able to give Quentin as much as he might take.

Desperate, always desperate to be closer, Eliot fell to his knees and pushed in between Quentin’s. He was never more grateful for his height than he was in that moment, how it left only the barest space between them even as he knelt. Like this, he could pull Quentin flush against him, could feel Quentin’s chest against his own. The weight of him was solid and sure and he moved to cup Quentin's face, to hold him steady so that he could kiss him deeper, and then he was overcome with the greediest urge to pull him somehow closer, like he could tuck Quentin away inside of himself, keep him safe in the dark chambers of his heart. Like this, he could— 

"El, _oh_ ," Quentin gasped as Eliot pulled him out of his chair and into his lap. He fell to the floor, his tailbone hitting the wood with an unpleasant jolt. But it didn't matter, nothing did but the weight of Quentin in his lap and the way his thighs flexed under his hands. He giggled into Quentin’s neck, ecstatic, suddenly, with the feeling of Quentin against him, here on the ground, in a room in a second-rate hotel at the state fair, as if it was something people just did— getting to touch, getting to feel, to kiss and to— to _love_ , blind and easy like moths.

"Is that, are you all right?" Eliot asked, even as he smiled into his neck, as his hips bucked a little underneath Quentin’s. He tucked the question into Quentin's neck and traced it with his tongue. 

"Eliot," Quentin said seriously, "I will absolutely, utterly—"

"Yeah?"

"I will, I’ll _kill you_ if you stop."

Eliot laughed, stealing forward for another kiss. He was overwhelmed with the knowledge that he was desired, that he might find a home in Quentin’s mouth, his hands, his hips. Quentin’s mouth was warm, so— so god-awful warm, and Eliot thought he might drown in the heat. He bit at Quentin's lip and groaned when Quentin reciprocated, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he ground down into Eliot's lap.

He leaned back and pulled Quentin’s thighs fully astride his hips. 

"Will you delay my death for just a moment?" he asked. Quentin, above him now, nodded.

"What is it?"

Eliot reached up to bring his hand to rest at his nape, the other cradled by Quentin's hip. "It's only, I wanted to look at you."

"And?" Quentin gazed down. "What’s the verdict?"

Eliot admired the heavy ridge of his brow, the fine lines at one side of his mouth where his dimples formed; he observed the gentle concave slope of Quentin's nose and his wide, smiling lips. When at last he met Quentin's eyes, they returned Eliot's gaze readily. In all his life, no one had ever met him halfway quite like this.

"Quite handsome," Eliot said, attempting and failing to affect the tone of a curator; where he meant to sound lilting and aloof, his voice was thick with want. He felt giddy with the disbelief, the relief that Quentin wanted him.

Quentin smiled and moved back in to kiss him, dragging his lips over Eliot's cheek up to his ear.

"El," he whispered, "you have no idea how I've— I've thought about this."

The notion sent something piercing through Eliot's chest and he failed to hide his sharp intake of breath, his hands tight at Quentin's hips. 

"What've you thought of, darling?"

" _This,_ " he said, rutting forward so that Eliot could feel the press of his arousal against his belly. Eliot drew in a sharp breath and pressed him down so that he could feel his own.

"Nothing more specific?" he laughed, nipping at his earlobe. Quentin smiled against his cheek and sighed, as though reaching far back into memory. Eliot thumbed at his hip bones, encouraging him to speak. He only let out another sigh and chased after Eliot’s lips. 

"Touching you," he finally said, his fingers tangling in the curls at Eliot's nape, "kissing you." And here he curled both hands behind Eliot's neck to hold him steady and kiss him in a manner that Eliot could only think to describe as reckless.

"Did you think of this that day at the creek?" Eliot asked against Quentin’s jaw. 

"No," Quentin said.

Eliot pulled away, his eyebrows raised. " _No?_ "

"No," Quentin said again, smiling this time. "I thought of it after, when I was alone, in my bed. I thought what it would feel like—" he paused, running his hands over Eliot’s shoulders.

"Please."

"I thought about your hands on me, like this," he said, "and like this." With that, he guided Eliot’s hand between his legs, where he could feel the thick press of him. Eliot groaned and smiled against his lips, running his fingers along the length, squeezing at the fat head through the fabric. It was too easy to lick into Quentin’s mouth as he did so, to show Quentin what Eliot might do to him.

"Jesus," Quentin laughed when they broke apart, disbelieving and panting. Eliot tapped Quentin's thighs and regarded him for a long moment. His eyes were a little glassy, like he was somewhere far off, a place where his lips were still pressed to Eliot's. Eliot took a deep breath to settle himself; he would make sure to ruin the Eliot of Quentin’s imagination tonight.

"Up on the bed?" Eliot said lightly. He helped Quentin up and arranged himself at Quentin's feet, tugging at his trousers until they lay in a puddle on the floor beside him. Once Quentin was naked from the waist down and his shirt unbuttoned, Eliot sat back on his heels. He rubbed a soothing rhythm across the top of Quentin's foot with his thumb.

"Looking again?"

"You caught me out," Eliot said. And he _was_ looking, at the dark hair that covered Quentin's legs; at the soft slope of his ribs, where he could see his chest expand and collapse every other second. He admired the cut of Quentin's jaw, sharp as he looked at the ceiling and softened when he looked down at Eliot to smile.

He was looking, too, at the hard line of Quentin's cock: slightly curved and bobbing against his belly in time with his pulse. He observed the aborted movement of his knees, as though he wanted to spread his legs but hesitated, at the last second, his legs bouncing inward like a metronome.

"No," Eliot said simply, and reached out to palm Quentin's knee.

"No?" Quentin breathed.

"No," Eliot said again. To make his point, he pushed outward and situated his body so that his shoulders were between Quentin's legs. "Like this."

Eliot leaned forward then to nose at Quentin's groin, to press his legs further apart and run his tongue along the crease where his thigh met his hip. He inhaled the private scent of him, musky and new and familiar, burying his nose in coarse hair as he mouthed inward.

" _God,_ " Quentin groaned. His fingers dug into the meat of Eliot's shoulder, as if Eliot was his only connection to the Earth. Eliot let out a hot breath against the length of him, smiling when he shivered.

"Did you dream of this?" Eliot asked, and swallowed Quentin down before he could answer.

This— this was what Eliot had dreamt of, the flex of Quentin’s muscles, the weight of him on his tongue just the same as he’d been in his lap, an echo beneath his hands. He sank down until the head of Quentin’s cock pressed against his throat and his nose was buried in the dark hair that trailed up his belly. There was a shift as Quentin moved, and then his hands were in Eliot's hair, delicately cupping the back of his skull.

Eliot dared to look up. He thought to find Quentin with his head thrown back, lost in the pleasure of Eliot’s mouth. Instead he saw Quentin’s gaze transfixed on him, his eyes glazed and his mouth open slightly, lips wet and red. At Quentin's open expression, Eliot felt a punch of arousal, his stomach tightening, the heady feeling of blood rushing to his already aching cock.

"El," Quentin sighed, "Eliot, _Eliot._ " It was as if he had at last discovered the meaning of some esoteric word, every syllable full of relief, of understanding. Eliot hummed in response, that he might convey his comprehension. He allowed himself the pleasure of pushing all the way down again and stopping to rest there, with Quentin cradled in the curve of his tongue and throat.

Above him, Quentin let loose a hurt sound. "That feels, amazing, so good, _please_."

Unable to keep himself from smiling, Eliot pulled off with an obscene sound. "How do you want it, sweetheart? In my mouth? My hand?"

"With you," Quentin said. "Come here?"

Eliot stood and divested himself of his own clothes as Quentin scrambled backward onto the bed. Eliot crawled on top of him, sinking down until their chests touched. It was like the first time he’d done this, in the barn at his parent’s ranch, the newness of it all sending a prickling sensation all down his legs. He shivered, shaking only a little against Quentin’s chest.

"Are you all right?" Quentin murmured against his neck.

"Unbelievable."

With that, Quentin smiled, and Eliot smiled, and Eliot took them both in hand. As carefully as he could, he moved his hips, fucking into his own fist and against Quentin’s cock, their foreskins slipping against one another and in his hand.

"Oh, Quentin—"

" _Eliot._ "

"I’ve wanted you so long," Eliot breathed into Quentin’s mouth. "So long, sweetheart."

"I have— _God_ — wanted the same. You’re so beautiful, El, you’re so— "

Eliot pressed his mouth again to Quentin’s to silence him. He couldn’t bear to hear what Quentin might say. Instead he swallowed his moans and felt the soft slide of Quentin's cock against his own, lost in the slick heat of their bodies working against each other. He could feel each time Quentin's hips hitched up to meet him, each ragged breath in his chest. Worse, there was the tender feeling as Quentin locked his ankle around Eliot's, entwining them as he urged Eliot forward.

"Wanna feel you," Quentin slurred. "I need, please—"

"What do you need, honey, tell me."

"You, wanna feel you come, wanna feel it."

His words sent a charged bolt down Eliot's spine, sent his toes curling with a seizure of arousal. That Quentin could want him so openly was one thing, but that he should want this, something so animal and base, and from Eliot no less— it was almost too much.

"Yeah," he said, "Christ, all right, I can— " and leaned down to seal his lips to Quentin. He fucked into his fist, a few short, hard thrusts, thinking of how it would feel to spread Quentin open, to push him against a tree in the orchard or into the softest bed and fuck him until he shook with it; how it would feel to take his time, to lick Quentin open and give him his hands, his cock; he thought of how warm and giving Quentin would be, how good Eliot would make him feel, how after he would hold him close and _stay_ , tucked up in the heat of Quentin’s body.

He didn’t realize he had closed his eyes, so overcome with his own imagination, until Quentin pulled away and touched his face. 

"El, look at me," he said, barely above a whisper. Eliot came crashing back to the reality that he was, in fact, here, naked with Quentin and pressed tightly to him, the hot weight of their cocks together in his hand. Nose to nose, he could only see Quentin’s dark eyes, but his breath shuddered against Eliot’s lips with each thrust. He tried desperately to keep his eyes on Quentin as pleasure built and built in him, his belly tensing. "It’s all right, Eliot, come on— for me, darling, for me."

"Oh, God, _Q_ ," he groaned and came, hot and wet over Quentin’s cock.

With what little energy he still had, he tugged helplessly at Quentin, his own come easing the way. Below him, Quentin whined and left scratches down Eliot's back as he searched desperately for something to hold onto. Even in his dazed state, Eliot could see that he was beautiful as he arched off the bed and into Eliot’s touch, his mouth open and panting as he struggled to keep his eyes open and on Eliot.

When he finally came, he sounded almost surprised, and shook like Eliot knew he would. 

As their bodies cooled and their breathing slowed, Eliot held Quentin close. He felt flayed open and yet safe, as though Quentin had broken him open and removed what was rusting and broken, leaving him with newer, delicate parts. As he drifted off, too exhausted even to wash their bellies, he thought, inexplicably, of clockwork.

* * *

Eliot woke slowly, his mouth dry and tacky. With great effort, the room slowly came into focus— its rough beams, the smooth panels of the walls, the worn cotton of the quilt. Several seconds passed before the memories of the previous night began to filter in, not in a rush, but slowly, in small pieces. He recalled first the smooth plane of Quentin's belly, then the feeling of his furred thigh against Eliot's lips. He remembered how Quentin had smiled, constantly, and how his eyes had rarely strayed from Eliot's face. He scarcely believed it real, until he shifted and felt the weight in bed beside him.

Carefully, Eliot rolled onto his side. The sun was already bright in the sky, eight o'clock or later, and the light cascaded over Quentin’s peaceful face, illuminating the curve of his nose and the jut of his jaw. Eliot knew that he should leave. He knew that he should not give Quentin the chance to see this adoring expression on his face, which he could feel in the tension of his cheeks that meant he held back a smile. He should not allow Quentin to see how desperately he wanted to kiss him that morning, and every morning. To reveal any of these things would mean the ruin of every plan he had.

Then Quentin shifted, his eyelashes fluttering against the new day, and Eliot could not help himself. He leaned in to capture his lips in a kiss most tender. Eliot pulled away when he felt his chest pull protective and tight around his heart.

"Morning," Quentin said, only a little shy, and reached forward to brush the tangled curls back from Eliot’s face. His reluctant heart swelled at such a gesture, of belief, of bravery.

"Good morning," Eliot replied. "Sleep well?"

"So well," Quentin said, smiling. He pulled Eliot in for another kiss, more languorous this time, slow and melted wax-soft in the heat.

Without thinking, he rolled on top of Quentin, felt the hard press of him against his hip. The bedding was tight around their bodies and pulled them close together, keeping Eliot nestled comfortably against the dip of Quentin's pelvis. Despite every instinct and fear, Eliot found himself smiling.

"That's interesting," he said, dipping down to kiss Quentin again.

"Oh?" Quentin said. His brow was pinched in a look of utmost concentration, as if he could barely think for the feeling of Eliot against him. It made Eliot feel unexpectedly fond and his heart leapt against the boundaries he'd so hastily built.

"I thought you might regret it," Eliot said softly. Quentin pushed back the curls that had fallen back over his forehead, as though it would grant him greater access to Eliot’s heart.

"Do you?" he said, hardly a whisper.

"No."

Quentin's expression softened and Eliot dipped down to kiss him again. Despite the taste of sleep in their mouths, Eliot could not help the heat in his gut, couldn’t help the way his hips started to move against Quentin. His skin was inexplicably soft despite the rough calluses on his hands, and Eliot moaned at the press of Quentin’s thickening cock against his thigh.

Then Quentin pushed him back, smiling small and sheepish. "I didn’t get to taste you last night," he said. "Can I?"

Helpless to resist, Eliot nodded, and they passed much of the morning repeating the night before.

They made their way hastily through breakfast and their goodbyes with Julia, each of them hugging and kissing her in turn. Kady, Eliot, and Margo left her and Quentin alone to say their goodbyes, preparing the wagon and horses so that they might make up some of the time lost in their late start.

When at last Eliot took his seats, Kady and Quentin safely ensconced in the wagon along with the newly purchased saplings, it was past midday. The trip would take them an extra half-day now, but Eliot could not bring himself to care. He helped Margo up beside him and prepared himself for an inquisition.

Indeed, as soon as she had adjusted her skirts, her elbow lodged affectionately in his ribs.

"So?"

"So," Eliot agreed.

She looked at him quizzically. He stayed silent, making to adjust the reins and feigning discomfort in his seat. It bought him only a few seconds of avoidance, until he could no longer resist her gaze and looked up.

"Eliot," she said, her tone serious and her eyes searching.

"It was," he began, " _he_ was," and found that he could not finish his sentence. How could he describe what had passed between them, how known he had felt, how _seen_ , even when their eyes had been closed in pleasure? What words would ever suffice to convey the depth of his feeling, the profound darkness in him upon which Quentin had shone a light with his touch?

He had never been speechless before Margo. He could only bite his lip and shake his head as his eyes burned.

"You're not going to be able to go through with it, are you?" Margo said bitterly.

Eliot frowned and looked away, that she might not see him wipe away a stray tear. "I don’t— I can’t do it to him. I’m sorry, I can’t."

The seatback shuddered as Margo fell against it, sighing. "We’ll discuss it when we get home," she said, her voice firm.

Eliot nodded and cleared his throat as he shook out the reins. He did not dare dwell on the way that even Margo had begun to refer to the orchard as _home_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started writing this fic in september of 2019. since then i have gotten married, changed jobs twice, sold my house, moved over a thousand miles and, you know. the entirety of 2020 happened. so apologies for the belated update!
> 
> that being said i've had everything planned since before i started posting, and i still have every intention of finishing this story. thanks to everyone who has been excited about it, with of course special thanks to **portraitofemmy** for the beta. i promise the next update won't take ten months, and i hope this chapter makes the wait at least a little worth it.

#### INTERLUDE

##### TAOS, NEW MEXICO

_You’re not anywhere. You could be in a ditch or a street or nowhere else. You are dirty, you are foul. You are drunk or worse and face-down in the muck._

__What have I done? _you think. You’re not sure. You know that you had to run, that you did something terrible and that if you did not run, they would find you and you would be done for. You remember the way your heart pounded as you slipped out of the house, the way your boots sunk in the mud. They were new, then, you remember, and you briefly stopped to consider how they were ruined. It hits you, what you have done, and your tears and spit mingle with the dirt._

_Your mother would turn in her grave if she could see you now. You know it, a certainty deep within your aching bones, and the thought turns to sickening shame in your gut and you wretch into the mud, a mess of salt and acid. But she cannot see you; she is in the ground somewhere in the dusty Panhandle. You remember, though you were but nine years old when you helped to dig her grave. With startling clarity you recall the way the red dirt stained your shirt, how it lodged in the creases of your still-soft hands and no amount of washing could cleanse it. You remember your father’s shadow, dark like another hole in the ground, and the silent way it commanded you. Now your hands are red again and she is not here to see you, just as she was not there to see so many things. She could not save you then and she cannot save you now._

_You have always been alone._

_There is someone standing above you. You can turn your head just enough to get one eye on the figure and it is backlit by lantern light in heavenly fashion, long hair all gold at the edges. Then a voice says your name and it is familiar, knowing. At first you think you have died and that she is an angel; later, she will laugh at you for this. Now, though, she is not laughing. Her hands are under your shoulders, pulling you up._

_She looks at you and though you cannot make out her expression, you know exactly what it is. She is the only person who has ever truly seen you. And so she takes you to the creek and strips you naked and by dawn the mud has been scrubbed from your body. You are dressed in secondhand shirtsleeves and trousers too big for your starving waist._

__We'll find you better clothes _, she promises._ You'll be yourself again soon. __

_You are not alone anymore. And it's time to move._

* * *

#### CHAPTER 5

##### FLORENCE, COLORADO  
SEPTEMBER 1894

Quentin woke on a bright Tuesday morning to a cool breeze blowing through his windows. There was a crisp smell to the air that could only mean that autumn had arrived at last, nipping at summer’s sunburnt heals. He stretched, and as he stood and began to dress for the day he could not help but feel that autumn seemed to hold a sort of potential that it had never previously possessed.

At the table for breakfast, Quentin could not keep his eyes off Eliot. Autumn suited him already; truly, it was his season more than anyone else’s. The late rising sun caught his eyes in such a way that they appeared deeply green, that rarefied hue that Quentin adored, and the freckles over his collar and cheeks now shone more brightly as his summer tan faded. Eliot was always beautiful, true, but this was something different. Quentin was smart enough to understand what it meant that Eliot had not often stuck around his old haunts, and as he held Eliot’s hand under the table, he could not help but feel profoundly privileged to have him here, to witness the changing seasons over the lovely planes of his face.

"Shall we go down to see about the apples today?" Ted said, breaking Quentin’s reverie.

Quentin nodded, sipping his coffee. "I think we ought to. They were looking pink last week, might be about ready for the earliest harvest." He let his gaze slip toward Eliot as he squeezed his hand; it was one of many small blessings that Eliot’s left-handedness left his right free for holding, as long as they were sure to sit in the right configuration. Eliot’s expression slipped into something sly as he set his fork down and inhaled to speak.

"Certainly me and Q could head down, no sense bothering the two of you with it, especially if they might not be ready."

Quentin looked toward Margo and smiled. With her, there had only been the slightest change, like a creek overrunning its banks rather than changing course entirely. Certainly she could not disapprove; certainly she knew of Eliot's nature. Yet he could not help but detect a slight air of disappointment, and thought that eventually, he would speak to her about it. Great as his affection for Eliot was, he did not wish to lose such a dear friend.

As if she'd heard his plea, Margo at last smiled in kind. "I certainly wouldn't mind a morning to myself for once."

"Well, all right then, that’s settled," Eliot said with a squeeze of Quentin’s hand.

The dishes washed and Ted comfortably settled on the porch, Quentin and Eliot set out for the orchard. It was all he could do to keep from running, though his pace still approached a gallop behind Eliot’s long stride. Around them, the morning breeze still blew, rife with the promises of autumn and of the harvest, sweet and crisp and cool, all tangled together with the smell of Eliot’s tobacco.

As soon as they crossed into the orchard, Quentin turned to Eliot and pushed into his space without waiting for any words. He stood up on his toes and flung his arms around Eliot's neck to pull him in for a kiss, and was pleased when Eliot's hands went quickly to his waist. They were unhurried in the shade of the copse, their kisses hungry but without urgency, and Quentin savored it as he would the first fruit of harvest, taking in every detail, every sweet taste and texture of Eliot's lips, his tongue.

He pulled away and rubbed his nose along Eliot's while Eliot smiled and chased his lips for more kisses.

Things had changed since the fair, but not in the way Quentin had expected. A part of Quentin had been afraid that they would return home and that Eliot would retreat, but to his great surprise and even greater joy, that was not the case. Though they could not share a bed as either might have wished in respect of Quentin's father, they found more than enough excuses to be alone together, and Eliot’s affection seemed only to have grown into the new space they made together.

"You're unbelievable," Eliot said quietly, running his knuckles under Quentin's jaw. Quentin felt his face go scarlet under Eliot's touch, under his affection. He looked up into Eliot’s face as he had a hundred, a thousand times before.

It was a different thing altogether, to be allowed to look.

"Have you been thinking about me?" Quentin said.

Eliot grinned. "Of course, every moment. Whenever I can’t touch you, I imagine it. Whenever I can’t kiss you, I dream of it. Every night I can’t lay alongside you is torture."

"You’re teasing me," Quentin said, even though he knew that Eliot was not.

Eliot hummed a little and pressed his thumb to Quentin’s chin. "It’s easy, you get so riled up. And you look," he dipped down to kiss Quentin just above where his thumb rested, the stubble of his upper lip a thrill against his skin. "You look so _lovely_ , sweetheart, when you’re blushing, how am I supposed to resist that?"

"Oh yeah?"

"Don’t be smug, it doesn’t suit you."

"Doesn’t it?" Quentin said. His face felt warm with joy. He giggled and stumbled as Eliot pushed them back toward a tree, until he bracketed Quentin against it.

He shuddered when next to his ear, Eliot whispered, "Guess I’ll have to find a way to shut you up, huh?"

"Suppose so," he breathed. Eliot’s hands slid down his forearms to grip his wrists, bringing them up so that his arms rested against the tree.

"Stay there," Eliot said. Quentin titled his head back, feeling the rough texture of the bark beneath his hair. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the scent of damp soil and apples, feeling his body go slack as oxygen flooded his veins. This was the place where he had grown up, where he had run through the rows of trees with Julia, and later, walked hand in hand with Alice. But it was only then, with Eliot, there in the dappled daylight, that it felt like it was truly his.

As Eliot reached down to unbutton his trousers, Quentin allowed himself to relax further, trusting Eliot to put him where he needed to be. Then Eliot’s big hand reached into his drawers to cup him, his fingers trailing lightly over his cock on the way, and Quentin could not hold back a long sigh of relief. He sagged back against the tree and angled his head for a kiss.

"That seemed to do the trick," Eliot said once they parted. He withdrew his hand only to move to Quentin’s waist, working his trousers down around his thighs. "I wonder, though— can you keep quiet?"

Quentin felt his heart begin to hammer in nervous anticipation. He was not altogether inexperienced in this realm, having shared a handful of nights with boys at the saloon, but he had never been with anyone as giving as Eliot. No one else had ever been so careful, had ever spent so much time so clearly trying to make him feel good. Before, it had always been about chasing his own pleasure, as if he and his partner were on separate if parallel tracks, racing along to the end. But like everything with Eliot, he felt so deeply cared for.

He melted against the tree as Eliot took him into his mouth. 

"El, God— " Before Eliot, he had rarely received such attention; and even then, it had not been like this. It had not been Eliot, beautiful Eliot, who should not want him but did, on his knees in the orchard, his mouth hot around Quentin’s cock.

And he could not deny the way it felt, to receive Eliot’s affection. He looked up, through the boughs and into the bright blue sky, the sunrays that trickled gently between the branches and the leaves. It was paradise, he thought, he _knew_ ; the feeling of Eliot’s hands on his hips, of Eliot’s mouth on his cock, working gently, even, he’d dare to say, lovingly, slow and steady and sure but also hungry, so wet that Quentin could swear he felt the drip of Eliot’s saliva onto his thighs. The air was cool and yet warm from the sun and it was by all accounts a perfect autumn day, made all the more perfect by the way that Eliot gently worked his length until he found himself crying out.

"Darling," Eliot gasped as he pulled away, "I thought you said you'd be quiet."

Quentin looked down to see his coy smile, meeting it with his own grin. "I promised no such thing."

Eliot’s smile then was something carnivorous. "Can I," he began, and stood, unbuckling his belt in a gesture that situated itself perfectly between poised and animal. The clink of the metal, the sound of leather over leather filled Quentin’s senses. "Here, will you turn around?"

"Whatever you want, please, Eliot, whatever you want."

Quentin breathed against the branch where he braced, his lips dragging only slightly against the bark. He closed his eyes as he felt Eliot grasp his thighs and angle his hips upward, and had half a mind to wonder if he was really, was he really— was Eliot going to— ? He couldn’t say he would mind, in some way, not with the way his cock hung heavy between his legs, but he’d— truthfully, he’d hoped for some virginal romance, some conversation of what they both wanted, of what felt good. To think that Eliot might just assume— 

Then Eliot’s cock nudged between his legs. Quentin gasped as Eliot’s hands moved to the outside of his thighs, pressing them together. He had half a second to wonder what exactly was happening, and then Eliot was hard where he slipped between his legs.

" _Oh_ ," he gasped, laughing. "That’s, Eliot, fuck."

Eliot’s laughter cascaded over his shoulders, gentle and warm as the shallow falls that lay upriver. His fingers dug only slightly into the flesh of Quentin’s hips as he moved, and Quentin couldn’t deny that it felt good to have Eliot so close like this, pressed flush and near his most tender places. And like this, it was impossible not to imagine how it might feel to have Eliot in him, what it might feel like to be stretched open around him. Quentin groaned at the thought and reached down to trail his fingers over the wet cockhead as Eliot thrust forward again.

"Darling," Eliot sighed. He shifted to reach for Quentin, squeezing briefly at the base before he formed a loose fist for Quentin to thrust into, and Quentin couldn’t stop himself from reaching back to take Eliot’s hand as he moved.

In the end, it was the warmth of Eliot’s breath ghosting over his neck that did him in. He came helplessly, spilling over Eliot’s hand and onto the ground, shaking and gasping as Eliot held him close.

"You’re beautiful like this," Eliot whispered hotly against his skin. "You have to know, Quentin, how gorgeous you are." Quentin smiled lazily as the aftershocks rolled through him, unduly pleased with himself at the feeling of Eliot’s shaking thighs behind him.

He turned to face Eliot over his shoulder. "Am I?" he asked.

" _Fuck_ , Quentin," Eliot gasped. "You are, you are, you _are_." With that his thrusts stuttered and last he pressed hard against Quentin’s backside, and Quentin couldn’t help it— he sighed and let loose a small laugh at the feeling of Eliot spilling down his legs.

"What’re you laughing at?" Eliot slurred against the back of his neck.

"Oh, just, you think I’m beautiful."

"Hush," Eliot said. "You are." He pressed a last kiss to Quentin’s neck. "Let’s get cleaned up. I think we have some actual work to do."

"Good luck getting your mess cleaned up," Quentin said as he wiped at his thighs with the handkerchief Eliot passed him.

"I said," Eliot said, with an obvious smile in his voice, " _hush_." He squeezed Quentin’s ass, his thumb pressing inward just enough until Quentin gasped.

"I thought you said we had work to do."

Eliot ran his thumb down to graze the sensitive skin. "I suppose we do."

With a laugh, Quentin shoved Eliot’s hand away. At last dressed and in a state halfway resembling decent, he gave Eliot a final peck before he turned to the trees.

As they worked, he felt something that he thought might be happiness. It was not easy to say, really; he could not recall the last time he had felt this at ease. But as he watched Eliot stretch toward the fruit he could not reach himself, he thought that this must be what happiness was: less overwhelming joy and more soft contentment, the feeling of the breeze over his skin and the look on his lover’s face as he inspected the pink and yellow apples.

Later that morning, Margo appeared, the smile on her face belying her distracted eyes 

"Bambi?" Eliot said, climbing down the ladder. Quentin could see immediately that whatever he perceived ill in Margo’s expression must truly be serious, for Eliot to show such concern. Quentin thought that she might be feeling unwell, or else there was bad news from home. 

But then, she looked toward Quentin and said, "Q, honey. I’m sure everything is all right. But, well. It’s only— "

"Only what, Margo?"

"Your father, he’s— I think you should know, he’s not as well as he pretends to be. I know you two have been," she motioned between them, smiling, not unkindly but with reservation visible in her tense cheeks, "all caught up, and it’s not your fault, but I think you might’ve seen it if not."

Quentin felt a hot wave of shame roll over him. He had never been one to let romance or other such frivolities come before caring for his father. To do so now, when Ted had so recently seemed to grace Death’s threshold, felt the grandest betrayal.

He swallowed, nodded. "Thank you, Margo. I’ll speak to him this evening."

At that her shoulders sagged as if in relief. "Please do. He’s barely mentioned it to me, how ill he feels, and I know he doesn’t want to worry you. But I think. I think it would be good if you checked in on him."

"I will," he promised. He was grateful when Eliot reached forward to take his hand. Grateful for the warmth and the breadth of his palm, when he felt as small as a child.

"Don’t look so sullen, Q," Margo said. Her tone was suddenly smooth as the cream skimmed off the milk that morning. She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. "It’s going to be all right."

He tried to take comfort in her easy words. "Shall we get to work?" he said. He let go of Eliot’s hand to stoop and reach for a basket on the ground, passing it to Margo in a gesture that mirrored her ease. 

"Let’s," she said. With that she headed down the row, where the apples were bright pink as the sunset.

When at last Quentin turned toward Eliot he noticed the slight crease to his brow, the obvious worry in the arc of it.

"I’m fine," he said once Margo was out of earshot. "I swear."

"I believe you," Eliot said. And Quentin believed it too, when Eliot pressed a sure kiss to his lips. There was nothing, he thought, that seemed impossible when he was with Eliot.

* * *

It had been some time since Quentin had found himself at his father’s bedside. But he had promised Margo and himself, and although he hadn’t been present, he had promised his father, too. So he took what before had been his customary seat and waited patiently while Ted finished the current page of his book.

"So," Ted said simply. In the dim lamplight he seemed impossibly older, all of his wrinkles less like creeks and more like canyons across his face. Where the warm light should have lent his features a certain youthfulness, perhaps a rouge across his cheeks or a glint to his eyes, Quentin could not help but see what must truly lay in front of him: a man who was ill. His skin sallow and his cheeks thin. 

Nevertheless he agreed, "So," and smiled.

"Margo didn’t send you to give me a stern talking to, did she?"

Quentin laughed. His father had always seen through every veneer, even those he considered expertly applied. "Of course she did. How are you feeling, Pa?" 

"I’m all right," he said. At the quizzical expression that must have crossed Quentin’s face, Ted laughed. "Truly. It does a father good to see his son so well."

"Margo says," Quentin began. He almost thought to question what his father meant, exactly, by his comment, but thought better of it. He was grown, now. His self-interest could wait. "Margo says that you’re not as hale as you make yourself out to be."

"Oh, applesauce. I’m fine."

Quentin bit his lip. Some part of him wanted to push forward, to beg his father to tell him the truth. And yet a larger part of him, the part that knew his father, that respected him as a son should, hesitated. He allowed himself to reach forward and take Ted’s hand, hoping that their palms together would convey what words could not.

After a few moments’ silence he said, "The harvest is coming along nicely. I imagine we’ll be ready for market soon."

Ted nodded. "About that— I thought you two might like to take a trip up to Colorado Springs, see Ember about this year’s yield?"

"‘Us two?’"

"You and Eliot. Why not?" Ted shrugged and gave a small smile. The same smile Quentin had seen when suggestions were made of he and Alice taking the air together, kind and not without appropriate paternal pressure. "Thought y’all might like to get away. It looks to be a good haul from the early harvest and I imagine we could even put you up nicelike, in a real inn where you’d be comfortable."

Quentin pulled at a dry cuticle on his thumb. "Um," he began, and found that there were no words waiting for him. Of course he would like to get away, _of course_ it would be nice— nice to have time alone, without all the work of a farm; to have their own space, however temporary, a place that was only theirs. It would be more than _nice_ , he thought, to share a bed, in a place where no one knew them or could judge them improper. But he could not tell his father these things, or did not think he could, and so he only squeezed Ted’s hand where he held it, hoping that he understood.

"Son, it’s all right." Ted’s voice was gentle and he cleared his throat, squeezing back. "Do you love him?"

Time stilled. Quentin felt his racing heart slow to nearly a stop. He could scarcely believe his ears and struggled for what felt like an eon to find his words. Unable to think of any other response, he said only, "Pardon?"

"You heard me," Ted said, smiling. "Don’t think I haven’t noticed y’all sneaking off or that little spring in your step since the fair."

"Pa," Quentin said, overwhelmed. He looked away and closed his eyes, willing his tears back. But in the end, he was helpless to do so. Blinking hard, he looked at his father.

For the first time in a long while, Quentin considered his father for who he was. His eyes, wrinkled with fondness and years of smiles at the corners; the same heavy brow that Quentin possessed. He felt the thin skin of the hand he held, how even in such a state as he was, the calluses of work remained, the signs of years of labor, of the time he had put into raising this land and his son. Quentin realized that he had never truly asked his father what he’d wanted from life, that he did not know who Ted Coldwater was before he was simply _Pa_ , and that there was, all told, likely not much time left to find out. 

At last he said, "I think I might."

"That’s good, son. I think you know by now that love is rarer than any stone. And I have to confess, I’m glad to see you in such a state. After Ms. Quinn I wasn’t, well. Frankly I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance before my time came."

"You can’t say things like that. You can’t _think_ like that."

"Please, Quentin. Let me have this small happiness. One day you’ll understand, I swear, the joy I feel for you right now." And then Ted was laughing, a few tears loosed over his face, and Quentin was much the same. Quentin had half a mind to crawl into the bed beside his father as he had when he was small and nightmares plagued him; to curl into the sure form of his protector, to protect his father now as he deserved.

At last Quentin steadied his breath. "Pa— thank you."

"For what?"

"For—" Quentin took a moment. There were not enough words in his vocabulary or indeed the world that encompassed his love for his father in that moment. Nothing could possibly convey the depth of his gratitude for what it was to be loved, to stand unjudged before the man that had raised him as if from the very ground. He settled on a kiss to Ted’s cheek. "For everything."

"Thank you for being a good son. For being _my_ son. Now, I need to sleep and I’m sure Eliot will be delighted to hear about your upcoming retreat. Give him my love, won’t you?"

Quentin pressed a last kiss to his father’s forehead. "I will."

* * *

Their lodgings in Colorado Springs were among the finest Quentin had ever seen. Indeed they had not just a room but a whole suite to themselves, a parlor in which they might take a private breakfast and a bedroom in which they might spend each night entwined. There were even a few tubs, just outside their room, tucked neatly away into small alcoves, with running water and all. Such luxuries Quentin had never dreamed of. His previous trips to Colorado Springs had typically consisted of simpler accommodations. His father and he had shared a room, simply appointed, in a boarding house or even less. 

"You look struck dumb," Eliot said as Quentin looked about the room. Their luggage, moth-eaten and travel-worn, seemed so out of place where Eliot had set it beside the door.

"I am," Quentin laughed. "I’ve never— I’ve never been anywhere as fine as this, let alone been allowed to stay."

Eliot hummed sympathetically as he wrapped his arms around Quentin’s middle, his chin resting on Quentin’s head. "I’d give you this forever, you know."

"What?"

"Comfort. Fine things. Whatever you want, darling. I’ll make it happen." As he spoke he moved to nuzzle Quentin’s jaw, laying sweet kisses there and down into his neck until Quentin squirmed with the feeling of his unshaven cheek.

"I think you’re the only one who longs for finery," Quentin said. "You know I’ve got simple taste."

"And yet you’re so fond _me_."

"Well. We all have our faults." He smiled against Eliot’s tickling kisses. "What shall we have for supper tonight, Mr. Waugh?"

"Oh, I don’t know. I thought I might take my lover to the hotel restaurant, perhaps treat him to a roast pheasant, some select wine. Maybe even feed him _ile flottante_ by the spoonful, much to the scandal of our neighbors. What about you, Mr. Coldwater? Have you any plans?"

"I thought I would take my lover to my favorite inn where my father and I used to stay, where we might enjoy some shepherd’s pie and house ales. It would mean so much to me, you see, for my lover to see the place where I grew up each autumn."

For a moment Eliot was silent, only swaying gently against Quentin. It was just long enough that Quentin felt the beginnings of the flames of self-consciousness in his breast, licking hot beneath his throat.

At last Eliot whispered, "I imagine your lover would consider himself lucky to share such an intimacy."

"Do you think?" Quentin craned his neck to look back at Eliot, squeezing his hands where he held them.

"I do," said Eliot. Quentin watched as his eyes crinkled in a smile, his eyelashes casting delicate shadows like new branches across his cheeks.

The kiss they shared then was softer, Quentin thought, than anything he had yet experienced in his short life. 

"Shall your lover wash up for such an occasion?" he murmured into Quentin’s mouth.

"Oh, I think he must. It would only be respectful."

"Well, in that case," Eliot said. He pinched Quentin’s waist as he pulled away and moved toward the wash basin where a pitcher of cool water stood ready for his application. 

Thus refreshed, they made their way out onto the street. It was busier than even Quentin remembered, each passing year seeming to bring with it increasing numbers of people— of merchants, cattlemen, traders, and all sorts. Indeed each year the town lost another vestige of its frontier identity, every woman who strolled the streets staking Colorado Springs’ claim to the title of a proper city.

Eliot offered his arm and with only a moment’s hesitation, Quentin accepted. His cheeks flushed as he did so, and yet he could not bring himself to be ashamed; for who could ever be ashamed to be escorted by anyone as handsome and striking as Eliot, no matter their sex? In his hat and tie, all freshly cleaned and free of the signs of their labor, he cut a striking figure that Quentin adored, of which he could only hope to be a worthy companion. They walked entwined, making small talk, remarking upon a shop window here or a passing carriage there, the simplicity of their conversation belying the depth of adoration between them.

As they made their way to the saloon, Quentin could not help but wonder how people observed them, if everyone could see the affection they bore one another. If it was obvious in Eliot’s hand over Quentin’s own where it rested in the crook of his elbow. Selfishy, he hoped they did— that indeed everyone around might upon the briefest glance recognize them for lovers.

Once arrived they found a table to the side of the bar. Eliot pulled Quentin’s chair out like a proper suitor, and Quentin smiled as he gestured for him to take his seat.

"First let me get us some refreshments," Eliot said easily, "and are you hungry?"

With a smile, Quentin said, "Famished." In their positions, Eliot seemed a giant, towering above him with his warm eyes. He felt safe beneath such a gaze and watched without shame as Eliot sauntered toward the bar, admiring the ease with which he spoke to the bartender, his warm smile and practiced courtesy that nevertheless seemed innate.

Eliot returned with two mugs of ale and a meat pie for them to share.

"So," Quentin said between drinks, emboldened, "who exactly is Eliot Waugh?"

Eliot laughed and shook his head. "You don’t know well enough?"

Quentin shrugged. His cheeks burned but still he resolved not to let go of the question, for as well as he knew Eliot there was still so much to learn, he was sure of it. "I suppose. It’s only, I don’t know. I feel so much for you, and yet I feel as if I only have half the picture. You’ve mentioned brothers, that you left home; you’ve alluded to you and Margo’s journeys together. But I can’t make the connection. I don’t know how the boy you’ve mentioned became the man in front of me."

Eliot searched Quentin’s face like a prospector might observe his pan in a new river, hopeful, but reserved. Braced perhaps for disappointment. "I— I did tell you, I think. That my daddy was not the best of fathers."

"You’ve made reference." Quentin nodded, encouraging.

"Well. He was— truth be told, he was quite— violent. We raised cattle, you know, Red Angus and some others. I know the orchard is hard work but cattle— they’re _hard work_. The stench and the sweat and it’s, Quentin, you have no idea, it gets so hot in the summer, it would drive any man mad. You truly can’t imagine. The peaches and plums are so sweet and the air so cool up here in Colorado, you understand? And my daddy, he sought comfort mostly in whiskey and in his own hatred, the familiarity of it— and I think— I think he saw something in me, as if he knew I would leave that life. That I would never suffer as he did. I think he hated me for it. Not that he didn’t go after my brothers, too, but it was— he hated me the most."

"Eliot," Quentin began, "I’m so—"

"No, darling," Eliot said quietly. "It’s all right. I only want you to understand that if I’m not forthcoming, it’s only because it’s quite painful for me."

Quentin shook his head. Truly, he hadn’t wished to dig into Eliot’s past like the daring miners to the north. He felt abashed. "Of course. I’m sorry, I only wish to know you." 

Eliot smiled, all his teeth neat and white as freshly painted pews. "My name is Eliot Waugh. I’m from Goodnight, Texas, the son of cattle ranchers. I don’t take naturally to reading but I love stories, and I _love_ the theatre. My dearest friend is Margo Hanson, who I met in San Antonio when I attended a lecture the year I turned sixteen. She is the only person I’ve ever met who— who truly _knew_ me, and we have been together for almost a decade. We’re making our way to California where our glorious future awaits us, but I’ve recently found myself waylaid by a handsome orchardist and I don’t know yet when we’ll be moving on. Not when he looks at me with such fondness," and here he reached forward to take Quentin’s hand, looking sheepishly down at the place where their palms touched in a way that struck Quentin as equally teasing and romantic. "And what about you, Mr.— Coldwater, you said your name was? What’s your story?"

Quentin smiled and resisted the urge to pull Eliot across the table and kiss him square on the mouth. He settled for squeezing Eliot’s hand where he held it. "Well, as you know, my name is Quentin Coldwater. I’m from Florence, Colorado, the son of an orchardist. And an orchardist myself by now, I suppose. My parents came out here before I was born, and soon after my mother realized that she was suited to neither the frontier nor my father. This was a great blow, as you may imagine, but I have never minded much. Me and Pa are suited to the work and I love him dearly. And I love— stories of all kinds, and I have always hoped that— that despite my humble beginnings, that I might be meant for something grander. I don’t know what that might be, but since I was a boy I have harbored an unshakable sense that this world had more in store for me than I could ever hope. I always knew that it was absurd, that men are only men."

Quentin’s mouth pulled tight, half a smile. With his free hand he lifted his mug to his lips, took a draught of steadying ale. "But then— I met you. And since then I have wondered if perhaps I was not wrong to keep waiting as I have."

His face grew hot at the admission. That same embarrassment that had come when he’d told Alice of his dreams, when he’d first worked up the courage; the same shame that haunted him whenever he emerged from his daydreams in the schoolhouse. He allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and collect his breath, to sip his beer and hope for the alcohol to soothe him. When he looked up at last he found Eliot still staring at him and instead of reproach he found only Eliot’s soft gaze.

Eliot’s grasp tightened, and it was only then that Quentin realized that his hand trembled.

"I’ve wondered much the same."

Quentin turned his fingers in Eliot’s. He marveled at the hard calluses that belied his silk tie; at their hands which despite Eliot’s larger frame were so similar in size. Yet his palms seemed so large all the same, and the strength of Quentin’s emotion in confluence with the feeling of Eliot’s delicate touch made him shudder.

"Have you?" Quentin said, barely above a whisper. Eliot’s skin was soft underneath his thumb, the ridge of his knuckle delicate and steady as the mountains that surrounded them.

"Of course I have, Q."

Quentin blushed at the nickname, the easy shortening of his name into a single syllable like it was simple, like all of his feelings could be condensed into that short utterance. The simple sound of _Q_ : the sound of Eliot’s tongue reaching toward his soft palate, the edges touching his teeth; the sound of the soft vowel making its way toward the front of his mouth where at last it ended in the terrible curve of his lips. That place where Quentin had found himself and lost himself a thousand times since that first night when Eliot had surged forward and captured him in his enduring kiss.

At last he looked up and caught Eliot’s eye. 

"Well," he said, with half a dozen things at the back of his tongue. A series of I love yous, I’ve never been myself until now, I need you, don’t leave, please— but all he could muster was a smile. "I’m glad for it."

They passed the remainder of the evening in relative simplicity. Swapping stories, laughing at Eliot and Margo’s antics, the tricks they pulled both harmless and Quentin suspected, less so. They laughed at Quentin’s equestrian failures, and again at the culinary debacles he had embarked upon to make the house with his father more of a home. Quentin felt closeness, truly, but— still Eliot seemed withdrawn after Quentin’s questions of his past, and he could not help but worry that he had crossed an unseen boundary, if perhaps he had trespassed into a place where Eliot dared not tread.

They left the inn and walked home in a silence that Quentin could not perceive as either awkward or companionable, though their arms were still linked. When they were alone again, Eliot’s shyness remained. He seemed hardly able to look at Quentin as he undressed, setting his cufflinks and tie on the bureau provided to them. Quentin did his best to ignore the tightness in his stomach, the strange fear that somehow he had pushed too far.

"Perhaps we should wash the day’s travel away," Quentin said, casually as he could manage upon their return to the hotel. Only a little selfishly he hoped that some time in the bath would give him time to collect his thoughts, and Eliot time to sort out whatever might need sorting.

"That sounds nice," Eliot agreed. "I could do with a hot bath." He winked and gathered his things— so many more trappings than Quentin possessed— and pressed a kiss to Quentin’s temple, a small balm against his unease.

For his part, Quentin tried to take his time. He tried to appreciate the hot water, the luxurious soaps. It was all an immense comfort for his aching muscles, and it provided the smallest of distractions from his anxieties. He was not unaware that he had failed often and hard at romance before— his early and misguided affections for Julia, his disastrous engagement to Alice— and the slightest hint of withdrawal from Eliot made him feel sick. He hoped desperately that he hadn’t done something terribly wrong. 

When he returned from the bath, he found Eliot sitting on the edge of the bed in a dressing gown, recognizable to Quentin as the cotton sort provided by the hotel. The gas lanterns were turned low, barely lighting the room. Though Eliot met his gaze readily, Quentin took the moment to observe. Eliot’s hair was damp; it hung in tightening ringlets across his forehead and his ears. Droplets of water still clung to his temples. 

Quentin approached, feeling a strange sort of confidence. If he had truly upset Eliot, surely he could set it right, if not with his words then with his body; he could remind Eliot of their ease together. With little effort, he let his hips sway, the fine cut of his bones obvious above the towel and a thing he never had considered before now, not before Eliot’s thumbs had found their way to the cradle of them. He kept his eyes on Eliot’s, wide and observant. Though Quentin had never been one to put much stock in his own handsomeness, it was impossible to deny the way Eliot looked at him, his eyes dark with hunger as they were light with adoration.

"Hey," he gently said, like he might startle Eliot as a doe at dusk.

Eliot looked up, eyes still wide but— unafraid. Present. "Hi, darling," he said. He reached forward, then, his unaccountable palms wrapping around Quentin’s hips.

Quentin reached down to cup Eliot’s jaw, felt the light scratch of stubble beneath his thumb. He sighed and said, "You’re all right?"

Eliot’s nose pushed into the hollow of his iliac crest. Quentin took an unsteady breath as Eliot kissed at the skin there, felt the warm ghost of his breath as he lingered. In that moment, he wanted everything, to feel Eliot’s mouth, to feel his hands, to feel and to take everything that Eliot might give him. As Eliot tasted his skin, Quentin thought that he had never wanted more of another person.

Eliot said, "I’m just fine," and sucked at the thin skin of Quentin’s belly.

"You’re sure? I haven’t—" Quentin gasped at the feeling of Eliot’s tongue dipping below his navel, "I haven’t done anything to upset you?"

"Of course not," Eliot said without looking up. From Quentin’s vantage Eliot looked like a man in the act of consecration, as if his tongue and his lips could bless the flesh. It made Quentin’s knees tremble as he threaded his fingers through Eliot’s hair. "You could never."

Quentin laughed, feeling at ease in the realm of self-deprecation. "You just give me some time."

Eliot shook his head. He pressed his cheek firm to Quentin’s belly, holding him tight by the hips. "I adore you, you know."

"I—"

Eliot silenced Quentin with his hands, pushing the towel down in one fluid motion. Quentin could not bring himself to care where it fell as Eliot nosed at the sensitive juncture of his thigh, as his tongue flicked out to taste the skin there, lapping gently at the crease of skin.

"Can I?" Eliot asked. His voice was uncharacteristically soft and Quentin thought absurdly of the breeze in the orchard, how gently it shook the bare boughs of early spring. This was not the true use of Eliot’s sonorous voice in the same way it was not the use of those naked trees; and yet Quentin could not help but feel that it was a kind of honor, to be privy to such intimacy.

"Can you what?" Quentin asked, his voice quiet and his hand gentle in Eliot’s hair. Eliot kissed at his thigh, back over his belly, seeming to carefully avoid his cock for a moment before he took it in hand. Eliot looked up at him as he ran his tongue over the slit to make Quentin hiss.

"Can I," he said again, but this time with the lilting confidence Quentin knew.

"Christ, Eliot, please," he laughed. "Please, give me your mouth."

"Demanding," Eliot said with a smile. Even in this state, Quentin could not resist an affectionate eyeroll. 

"Yeah, well, I learned from the best," Quentin said and then gasped and then sighed at the sudden warmth of Eliot’s mouth. With embarrassing speed he felt himself grow hard, pressing against the hot inside of Eliot’s cheek, at the back of his throat. There was no stopping the aborted movements of his hips, though he did his best to keep them measured, to keep from hurting Eliot. A surge of what he thought was unearned pride moved up his chest as Eliot moaned and took him to the root; still he couldn’t help but feel pleased that a man as beautiful as Eliot could draw such pleasure from Quentin’s own.

It grew worse when Eliot’s hands moved to grip his ass, urging him forward. Quentin took it as permission to rest his hands at the back of Eliot’s head. Not to move, but simply to hold, and the feeling of Eliot’s freshly washed curls beneath his hand made him impossibly harder.

When Eliot’s hand ventured inward, Quentin gasped. "You can touch me," he whispered. When Eliot hesitated, Quentin grasped his wrist and encouraged him forward. "I want you to."

Eliot groaned as he pulled back, leaving Quentin’s cock hard and wet against his cheek. Eliot palmed it, holding it close to the skin as he pressed his nose to Quentin’s pubic bone, as if it might ground him. "Are you — you’re sure?"

Quentin couldn’t help it when a laugh bubbled up in him. His whole body ached with the need to be touched; his knees shook with it. He held onto Eliot's wrist and cupped his cheek with his other hand, bidding him to look up.

"Yeah, El, I'm sure," he said. 

"Stop me if you need."

Then his hands were firm, kneading at Quentin's backside. Slowly, his fingers inched inward, and Quentin sighed at the feeling of being pulled apart, of being opened.

"All right?"

"I thought you said to stop you if I needed to."

Eliot shrugged and smiled. "Never hurt to check." And it was too much, suddenly, as Eliot's fingertip brushed over his hole. Eliot’s touch was as gentle as it always was. It was dry but it — it felt good, Quentin thought, the pressure of it, the promise.

"Oh that's," Quentin gasped, bucking forward.

"Yeah?" Eliot said against his hip, where his mouth was hot and wet. 

" _Yeah_ ," Quentin sighed as Eliot pressed a little more firmly with one finger. Overcome, Quentin petted Eliot’s hair, letting his fingers get caught in his curls but always careful, never pulling. He knew enough by now to know what made Eliot feel good.

Quentin kept his eyes on Eliot’s face, and Eliot kept his on Quentin’s, a feedback loop of questioning and affirmation, visible in the quirk of Eliot’s mouth, the slight nod of Quentin’s chin, the way Eliot bit his bottom lip as he rubbed the tip of his finger around the tight ring of muscle. He surged forward to straddle Eliot’s lap, pushing the robe off of Eliot’s fine shoulders as he did so. He reached for the oil they’d bought — that Eliot had asked, so gently, if they’d need, earlier at the general when they’d stopped for soap and a new button to replace the one Quentin broke on his left cuff earlier that day.

"Here," he said, "I want you to, please, I want— more. Touch me, won’t you?"

Eliot let out a laugh that Quentin almost thought was drunk, high and tinkling with delight. "Of course I will, Christ, Q, I’ve — I want you so badly, I want — have you ever, is this, have you ever done this before?"

Quentin grinned and dipped down to kiss Eliot, short and fierce. "What, been with a man?"

"Well," Eliot said, uncharacteristically sheepish.

"Would you be disappointed to know that you aren't the first I've had?" he said. He felt bold, unable to resist wheedling Eliot.

Then Eliot grinned, seeming to catch up to the game.

"Quentin Coldwater, that sweet orchardist's boy, out in town hunting for cock?" Eliot said, half laughing but lascivious all the same. Quentin shivered, smiled, Eliot's voice sending goosebumps over his arms.

"I wanted to know if I liked it," he said with a shrug as he settled, his knees astride Eliot’s hips. "And I did, El, I loved it, I really did, and I want it with you. I want to be close, have you here, with me, inside," he said, and guided Eliot’s hand behind him. He pushed on one knuckle until Eliot picked up on his implication and pushed forward, his finger slipping into Quentin's body.

Eliot let out a long hiss, his fingers digging their prints into Quentin’s flesh. "Okay, all right, so you know, how it feels, I don't want to hurt you and it's — it can be too much. _I_ can be too much."

A look of fear passed over Eliot’s face that made Quentin want to tuck him against his chest, to fight whatever forces had made Eliot think he had anything but goodness in his hands. "You won't hurt me," Quentin promised. He took the oil and dribbled it liberally over his own hand. He reached back, sliding a finger in beside Eliot's.

" _Jesus_ , Quentin."

"See, it's all right," Quentin gasped as he rocked his hips, felt Eliot's finger slide against his own, felt the stretch of his own body around them both. "I can take it. I want it— I want _you_ , Eliot. Please. I’m not above begging." 

With that he moved his hand back to Eliot’s chest, canting his hips to allow Eliot to press two fingers inside him, to ride back on them and find the particular angle which would bring him the greatest pleasure. He felt it blooming low in his belly, the press of Eliot’s fingers catching secret places. He lifted his hips and pushed back down, a thin imitation of what he hoped they still might do, and smiled when it made Eliot moan and press harder. Quentin smiled and felt a warm bubble of pride, and God, he felt smug, unabashedly so, at the way Eliot wanted him.

"It’s so good, El, see? I told you, I told you—" he lost his breath on a gasp.

Eliot’s thumb pushed against his perineum as he worked his fingers still deeper, stroking inside, pushing from without. "Yeah," he laughed, "you sure did. Do you— lie down?"

Ungracefully Quentin fell onto his belly before he braced himself up on his knees, ready to take whatever Eliot might give him. He shivered when Eliot pressed a kiss to his lower back. "Is this all right?" came Eliot’s reassuring voice. Quentin craned his neck to look back, to see Eliot’s pink mouth, his nervous, bright eyes. All of Quentin's fears from before seemed like nothing more than the smoke of a small campfire. Light and ephemeral. A thing which passed quickly and with little consequence.

Quentin nodded and let his eyes fall shut. He felt Eliot's hands spreading him open and fought the wave of embarrassment that came with being on display in such a manner, focusing instead on the warmth of Eliot's touch, his breath against his tender skin.

He jolted forward when Eliot ran a finger over his rim, then could not stop his hips from begging backward.

"Eliot," he gasped, "are you—" 

"You have no idea what you do to me," Eliot said, and then his tongue was pressed there, flat and wide and warm against Quentin. He gasped, one hand flying out to grab at Eliot's shoulder, his hair, anything that might ground him against the wave of feeling that threatened to carry him away. He moaned as Eliot _licked_ , an obscene thing, but beautiful, something in the back of Quentin's mind insisted. To be touched like this, to be given such pleasure, was a rare thing.

Indeed it was— indescribable, the weight of Eliot’s tongue, wet and slick against him, the way his stubble rubbed the tender skin a little raw. He moaned and bucked wantonly against Eliot, and his legs quivered as he felt Eliot’s spit drip down.

Then the tip of Eliot's tongue pressed inside him just slightly, and he could not help but cry out. None of his brief encounters with the boys in Florence had never led to such debauchery, to such intimacy. As Eliot’s mouth moved hot against Quentin’s skin, he let his imagination drift to what they must look like: Quentin, on all fours, splayed out on the bed; Eliot, on his knees, his face pressed as neat as it was dirty into Quentin’s ass. He couldn’t see but he hoped, he _knew_ that Eliot was hard, that his big cock was dripping between his legs as he fucked Quentin with his tongue. He pictured the way it might be tight between his thighs, if they were pressed together, or how it might leak onto the quilt beneath them, how it might ruin it, if Eliot were hungry enough.

"God, Eliot, I’m," Quentin breathed and pressed his hips down against the bed.

"Here, turn over," Eliot all but whispered, still guiding, always in control. He placed his hands firmly on Quentin’s hips to guide him until he rolled over onto his back— where he could smile up at Eliot, he realized. Where he could see the warmth of Eliot's eyes, the bright green at the center that only shone in certain light like a secret that only Quentin knew. Wildly he wondered what that secret was, overcome with the sense in that moment Eliot hid as much as he gave.

Then Eliot dipped down to kiss him and again his fears fled. The feeling of Eliot's hands on either side of his face, holding him steady to receive kisses like communion. Without thinking he spread his legs to accommodate the narrow span of Eliot’s hips and pulled him closer. The feeling of Eliot’s cock, hard, so hard, and hot as a brand where Eliot thrusted in the curve of Quentin’s groin was all but unbearable. 

Quentin pulled one knee up in the way he had so long ago, when he'd pictured this moment. His most perfect imaginings could not measure up to the sight of Eliot resting back on his knees, the look of adoration on his face, nor the feeling of Eliot working his fingers back into his body, his thumb rubbing gently at his rim as his fingers pushed firm to make him gasp and tremble.

That Eliot should want not just to have him, but to _see_ — it was almost too much to bear. 

"More, please, I need—" 

"Shh, sweetheart, it's all right," Eliot said, even as he tugged at Quentin's hip with his free hand. Quentin could not help the gasp that escaped him as he did. With no little desperation he rocked his hips with increasing force, begging as best he could without using his words, his cock painfully hard but still untouched.

"Is that all right?"

"Please," Quentin cried as Eliot added a third finger. It seemed to go on forever, as though his body were expanding out into the room, all sense of time lost as he gave himself over to pleasure. Eliot’s hand inside of him, stretching and pressing against every nerve he seemed to possess; Eliot’s hand outside of him, his deft fingers playing along his ribs like the finest pianist. Eliot’s mouth, first on his neck and then working its way down, over his chest and stopping to suck hard at one nipple until Quentin shouted with it. All of Quentin’s life he had felt such terrible anxieties, such tremendous doubt and often hatred of himself, but then, in that moment, with Eliot bracing him from all sides and with every part of him, all he could feel was radiating, simple: what it was to feel good.

"I’ve got you," Eliot said, his voice shaking, and then his hand was gone and Quentin whimpered, his eyes shut tight and stinging with desire. When he opened them a moment later he almost sobbed with relief at the image of Eliot kneeling between his legs, the bottle of oil in hand, slicking himself before running a slick hand between Quentin’s legs.

"Okay, sweetheart, I’m going to—"

"Eliot, please, _please_ fuck me, please, I can’t, I need—"

Above him, Eliot laughed, though his expression betrayed him. His eyes were dark with want, his mouth open and panting. "Patience, honey," he said, and his voice was thin. Quentin felt the blunt press then of Eliot’s cock, the initial slip of it into his body.

"God, Eliot, _El_."

Eliot paused, blinking hard. "Too much?"

"No, Jesus Christ, no, keep going." 

Quentin felt delirious. He took a deep breath and his eyes fluttered shut as Eliot pushed in, slow and even. He hadn’t lied— he had done this before. But it had only been a handful of times, and never with anyone like Eliot. No one who had touched him with such reverence, no one who had taken the sort of time Eliot had taken. No one who had made Quentin feel like he mattered, like the sole purpose of his body was pleasure.

Lost as he was in the feeling, Quentin forced himself to open his eyes and something seized in his chest. Eliot was beautiful, that was indisputable. But like this, the first beads of sweat forming on his temple, the sweet smell of his skin and the heady scent of their love growing stronger; like this, his muscles straining and his mouth a little open; like this, he was something else.

And it felt so good to have Eliot inside him. To feel him moving, to feel such ardor in place of Eliot’s usual gentleness. To see him undone as he was, his eyes no longer searching Quentin’s face for hurt but only looking down on him in awe, as if amazed that he could draw such pleasure from another person. 

He thought it was only fair that Eliot knew. Gasping between kisses, he said, "Eliot, you feel so good, so big in me, oh my God— it’s, you’re amazing, it’s never been like this." He was surprised to realize as he said it that it was true. He threw one hand back to catch the headboard, steadying himself against Eliot’s movements which had quickened with his words. He laughed, a raw sound in his throat. He was doing this to Eliot— he could do it not just with his body but with his words; he could make Eliot sutter and shout.

"And you’re so," he got out in a single breath, then Eliot changed angles, sitting back on his haunches and shoving a pillow beneath Quentin’s hips. Then everything was different. Eliot felt somehow even larger in him, the places his cock pressed more intense. Quentin moaned, laughing as he did so. To give himself so wholly over to pleasure felt like an offering, as if he were placing himself upon an altar. As if he were saying, _See, Eliot, I’m here, you don’t have to worry_.

Out loud he said, "You’re so— oh, God, El, you’re so— you’re so beautiful, you feel so good, I can feel every inch of you, please, keep—" 

Eliot seemed broken from his spell. He looked down with wide, earnest eyes, as if amazed to find Quentin still beneath him. A small smile graced his lips and he tilted his head back and sighed. The sounds of skin against skin, of their heavy breath, filled the air. "You feel amazing," he gasped, "God, darling, you take me so well, you’re made for this aren’t you? For—" he paused, rolling his hips in punctuation so that he pressed hard into Quentin’s body. "For taking me. Just me, you’re just for me." At his words Quentin felt the heated skin of his chest flush anew, his heart racing. Eliot, ever generous with his words, did not stop here. "Look at you, _look_ at you," he said, and with that he took Quentin’s cock in hand.

First, Quentin disobeyed. He observed the dark trail of hair down Eliot’s belly, the skin of his belly glistening with sweat as he moved. It was almost unbearable, the sight in concert with the sharp sound of skin against skin. Then he saw the way the flesh of his thighs rippled, only just, with each of Eliot’s thrusts, the way Eliot’s thumb behind his knee pressed red prints and almost hurt. It was too much to look at himself until it wasn’t, and— God help him, he _saw_ , Eliot’s loose grip around his cock, encouraging him to move, to work for the delicious friction of his palm.

Quentin moaned and bucked his hips, keeping his eyes on Eliot’s hand. He felt suddenly transfixed, unable to look away from the way Eliot held him. The sight of his cock through Eliot’s fist, the sure touch of his thumb which pressed harder just there, beneath the head, as if he understood through skin alone the way to make Quentin go wild. He thought madly of the first times he had discovered that touching himself could feel so good, and later, of those boys in the saloon, in the rooms up above and the hushed moans and how he had thought that nothing had felt quite so good as having his legs hitched up around Daniel Talmadge’s hips, or pressing his cock into Evan O’Donnell, whose cries of pleasure had resonated deep in Quentin’s breast. He had thought that nothing could compare to that, nor to the countless kisses stolen in dark corners with men and women alike, nor even to the feeling of Alice’s soft skin, of her hot breath behind his ear.

At last he looked up. Met with Eliot’s face with his eyes hooded and his mouth slack. He smiled and Eliot smiled and he thought as Eliot’s fist tightened around his cock that there, beneath Eliot’s hands, that there would be only before and no after. It was only Eliot, bright as the sun arcing overhead and one day setting, but the only dusk Quentin would ever see.

"El, Eliot, I’m going to—"

"That’s it, Q, come on, come for me, I want to feel you."

"Yeah?" Quentin gasped, overcome with a last rush of impishness. He thought absurdly that he knew Eliot better than Eliot might ever give him credit for, than perhaps even Eliot knew himself. He said, "That’s what you want? You want to feel how good you make me feel, how I’ll go so tight around you? I know how it feels, when someone comes and the way they squeeze you, like their pleasure is yours. I’ve felt it. I know how good it feels to know and, and— to feel. You’re so—" he laughed, catching his breath, desperate with arousal. At Eliot’s incredulous eyebrows and he laughed again, overcome with lightness. "You’re ridiculous, I love you," he said without thinking, "God, now fuck me, please, harder, make me come. I’ll make it so good for you, if only you make it good for me first."

Eliot dipped down to kiss him, a wicked smile on his lips as he did. "I will," he said, and slowed the pace of his hips and his hand until it was agonizing. "Oh, darling, I will."

Quentin gasped into his mouth before he felt himself lost. His breath gone, his body expanding outward until it seemed to dissipate into air, as if his very molecules were pulling apart from one another until they collapsed back into themselves when at last he came, his body seizing and his voice loud as he cried out, careless of what the other guests at the hotel might hear.

"Oh my _God,_ " Eliot cried above him. Through the haze of feeling Quentin could yet feel how Eliot’s movements slowed and sped up and slowed again, his control evaporating as Quentin’s own body once had.

In a slurred voice Quentin said, "That’s it, El, I told you you wouldn’t hurt me. See?" With that he ran a hand through the mess on his stomach and, feeling daring, pressed two dirty fingers into Eliot’s mouth. 

Eliot moaned then and Quentin, despite his exhaustion, pushed his hips up with a final burst of resolve until Eliot buried his face in Quentin’s neck. His stubble and his laughing breath tickled there as his hips stilled and Quentin felt the pulse of his cock as he came.

For a while they lay like that, with Eliot collapsed on top of Quentin, their bodies slick with effort. Quentin drifted in and out of a doze as he trailed one hand over the fine ridge of Eliot’s spine, his palm coming to periodic rest on the slope of a shoulder or rib. His legs ached where he held them over Eliot’s hips but still he could not bring himself to relax or let go, even as Eliot’s cock softened and slipped and all that was left of their passion was a mess between his legs.

When finally they fell apart, Quentin sighed. Eliot’s hand was a comforting weight on his belly as he considered how he had come to this place— for even in the misty state that followed their lovemaking he felt amazed at his luck. Eliot had come into his life and fit neatly into it with the unexpected ease of a missing puzzle piece, something Quentin had long ago accepted as unobtainable. And yet here he was, laying beside Quentin in a fine hotel he would never have picked himself. Eliot’s hair fell in rakish curls all around his face, his whiskers cutting neat lines down his pale cheeks which were blue in the moonlight. His eyes were closed and his lashes cast gentle shadows over those same fine bones and no one, Quentin thought, under the sun or the moon, had ever looked so beautiful.

Such beauty had brought far greater men to their knees. Quentin was only helpless as he rolled toward Eliot, smiling, pressing sudden, jubilant kisses to his neck.

"What’s this?" Eliot laughed as he wrapped Quentin in his arms.

"Oh, it’s just that my lover took me to a fine dinner and ravished me in a hotel like a prospector on his way out west. Like he might never see me again." Quentin laughed and nipped at Eliot’s jaw.

Eliot made an offended sound even as he turned to catch Quentin’s kisses. Though the kiss was languid Eliot’s love somehow felt urgent, as if he were afraid that Quentin believed his own jest. And of course, there was only way to answer such fear: to kiss him, over and over, again and again.

Quentin withdrew to observe Eliot’s face once more. There was such warmth to it, he thought, such openness. In the dimple of his chin and the furrow of his brow Quentin thought that his secrecy from before had dissolved and, possessed, he felt his own confessions bubbling to the surface. 

"You know," Quentin said, "I was too scared to say before but— I do want things. I know I’m not special but I want to be— I always thought I’d leave." He cleared his throat and tucked his face against his Eliot’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. "Half of me is convinced I’d always run the orchard but some other part knows and, God, Eliot, I know it sounds ridiculous, I know it _is_ , but the other half of me hopes for something far greater."

"What do you imagine for yourself?" Eliot said seriously. Propped up on one elbow, he pushed Quentin’s hair behind his ear. Quentin shuddered at the touch.

"I’m not sure. I’ve spent so much time convincing myself I don’t deserve anything but what I’ve got. Or hell, if I even deserve that. But I can’t help but wonder what bigger things may be out there for me, whether it be out west or back east or somewhere in between. All I’ve ever known is a sense of possibility, like— like a well, something deep in me, that might lead other places. So it’s," he paused and swallowed, "it’s hard to imagine. With my habits of course I’ve dreamed of— well. Of far away places. But what I’d do once I got there, I have no idea. It’s only ever the promise of possibility." He shrugged, pushing himself up to look Eliot in the eye despite his embarrassment. It felt like the least he could do. Still he blushed and fought the desire to duck his head in shame.

"Well," Eliot said. His voice was quiet in the low light. He smiled and squinted toward the window as if it may hold answers for both of them. His naked shoulders seemed to glow, rounded as the moon itself. He said, "For what it’s worth, Quentin, I think there’s something magical about you."

Overcome then, Quentin tucked his face into his elbow. Still Eliot seemed undeterred, pressing his nose against Quentin’s cheek. With the heat of his face so near Quentin’s own, laying naked in the dark, Eliot seemed more real than anyone ever had before.

* * *

"So who’s this Mr. Ember?" Eliot asked over breakfast the next morning. It was an untold joy to sit across from Eliot in the privacy of their room and bedclothes, his feet in Eliot’s lap as he sopped up warm yolk with fresh bread.

"A distributor," Quentin said, not bothering to wait until he was done chewing. "He can sell our crop at higher margin than we’d be able to in town."

"Oh? And does he charge for his services?"

"He does, a percentage of the profits," Quentin acknowledged. He had never been fond of his father’s arrangement with Ember, but in such changing times, there was little to be done. "It is what it is."

"Well, good thing you have a swindler on your side," Eliot said with a wink. "I’ll spot his tricks from a mile away."

Fondly, Quentin rolled his eyes and wiggled his toes against Eliot’s palm. "I’m sure you will."

They finished their breakfast at the hotel and made their way to Ember’s offices across town. Quentin felt nervousness fluttering in his stomach like the butterflies that would return to the apple blossoms come spring. His father had trusted him with something enormous: to negotiate the prices and subsequently the profits that would carry them through to next year’s harvest.

Ember’s own office was trimmed in dark wood. His desk was of heavy oak, and every door frame carried the weight of a temple in its smoothed gnarls. Ember himself was a tall man— yet not quite so tall as Eliot, Quentin noted with no little delight— with thinning but not greying hair around his temples. He had the air of someone who knew he had something you wanted but that he was not quite sure what that something may be.

Ember’s eyes alighted when he looked up from his desk. "Quentin!" he cried. "I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again." With that he clapped Quentin on the shoulder, and Quentin did his best to smile in kind. "And who’s this?" he said, eying Eliot from the toes of his boots to the curls at his crown. "A companion?"

Quentin fought the blush rising up his cheeks. Ember was not a judgmental man, but neither was he someone to whom any wise man would disclose a privacy. He said, "This is Eliot. He’s been helping out this season."

"Eliot," Ember said. He took Eliot’s extended hand with delicate condescension. "Or perhaps Mr. —what is your surname? Surely a gentleman as finely dressed as yourself should be properly addressed."

After a moment’s hesitation, Eliot said, "Waugh. Eliot Waugh."

"Eliot Waugh," Ember said. He seemed to turn the name over in his mouth like a hard candy, tasting the crevices of its consonants. "I feel as if I know the name, but," he waved a hand dismissively over the top of his head. "You know how these things can be. Every third man out west is new, and you all blend together for old timers such as myself. At any rate, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope our Quentin hasn’t painted too poor a picture of me."

"Oh, no sir," Eliot said as he extricated his hand from Ember’s grasp. Inexplicably, Quentin found himself relieved to settle on opposite sides of the desk. He spared a quick glance at Eliot. His shoulders were tense, and his smile was a tight, thin line across his face. An urge to take Eliot’s hand almost overcame him but he managed to sit still in the stiff chair.

"So, Quentin, what has the Coldwater orchard got for me this year?"

They spoke then of yields and varieties, of promises regarding both quality and prices that would be guaranteed. Quentin found himself surprisingly comfortable in the negotiation, pushing back against Ember’s paltry offers, shielding himself and his father against undue expectations. Eliot chimed in only occasionally to support Quentin’s projections, and Quentin was grateful for him. Even in his obvious anxiety, Eliot was a reassurance presence, like a buoy bobbing along the waves. If Eliot was there, Quentin knew that at least he would not drown.

"Well, my boys, it seems as if we have things settled," Ember said with no little glee. He clapped his hands together and stacked his papers of calculations, eyeing each of them in turn over his half-moon spectacles. "I do thank you for coming all this way to meet with me. I trust it will be a most fortunate venture for us all." With that, he stood and extended his hand, and then they were gone.

As they walked back to their hotel Quentin felt his anxieties ease. He had done right by his father and by his land, securing a solid price for their crop with assurances of a small bonus if their quality was as high as he promised. Still Eliot seemed tense as a high wire. He gripped Quentin’s hand, nestled in the crook of his elbow, with astounding force.

With equal care and quiet, Quentin asked, "Are you all right?"

"I’m fine." Eliot’s voice was tight as he spoke. Quentin eyed him for a moment and waited, knowing that this time, there was certainly more to it. Eliot said, "I’ve met him before, is all."

"Oh?" Quentin failed to mask his surprise.

"I don’t know him well. It was only at a livestock auction, back in Texas or New Mexico, perhaps. I'm not sure. We were helping a rancher sell some cattle." He shook his head and grimaced, as if trying to banish the memory. "It’s all right. I’m not accustomed to running into people I’ve met before, is all. You know me and Margo pride ourselves on our mystery." With each word Eliot seemed to ease back into himself. Abstractly, Quentin wondered if Ember had not somehow pulled Eliot out of the world in which he belonged, with Quentin and at the orchard, into some painful place where he had no control. Where he was only what other people saw in him.

"I’m sorry," Quentin finally said, feeling oddly guilty. "I didn’t mean—"

"No, of course, Q. It’s not your fault. Let’s forget it and enjoy what’s left of our trip. I have it on good authority that there’s a boy back at my hotel who wants me to kiss him breathless. Who knows what else he might want to do with me, once I’m in his arms."

"Is that so?"

"It is," Eliot said, smiling, then swept down to capture Quentin’s lips boldly in the street.


End file.
